Miss Wren
was there again.
He watched her
from his table

sipping the cappuccino,
she window shopping,
her head slightly bent,
shoulders stooping,

wearing that nice
two piece again
with umbrella
in case of rain.

He studied her
as an artist,
took in the way
she stood,

shape of frame,
size of *****,
hips, way the legs
moved in gentle steps.

He sipped some more,
watched as she brushed
fingers through her hair,
stood upright,

hands to her back,
aching or no
he didn't know.
He wondered what thoughts

raced through her head,
what items in store
her eyes took hold,
what clothing would

she wish to wear,
he sipped slowly,
sitting there.
Now she moved on,

another window
took her sight,
she stopped and stared.
Hands in pockets,

legs together,
knees touching,
her mind elsewhere,
buying mentally,

wearing the dress
she'd seen,
doing an inner twirl.
He imagined her,

in all her beauty,
lying on his bed,
hands behind her head,
her ******* without bra,

her figure at an angle,
waiting for she knows
not what or whom,
who dreams of her,

who takes her
in his nightly sleep,
and puts away
the images

with the ones
he's had before,
sipped his cappuccino,
elbows on the table.

Miss Wren had gone,
he knew not where,
just the vacant space
where she had been,
hollow and bare.