First,
I would know her to be beautiful
While carefully walking up to my poetry
In those gentle moments of an afternoon.
Her hair may still be damp
At the ends from just washing it
Smelling faintly of jasmine, a light perfume.
She would be wearing a short tan coat,
An older one,
Slightly ***** at the hem
From being unwilling
to spend money on the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses,
And there,
As the sun streaks in golden sheets
Through the dusty windows long forgotten,
Of a back-alley bookstore,
She will thumb through my poems
Thinking odd thoughts all the while.
Then with a quiet sigh,
She will put them back on the shelf.
And shedding a single tear,
In silence and of whisper weight,
She will say to herself,
“For that much money I can get my coat cleaned”.
And she does,
For the silent price of a single tear.