walking without my skin
but the bones are still there
cooling themselves but a bit much today
children so engrossed in not knowing our problems
old women, together on a bench, obsessing
the wind passing through me, cleaning the sidewalk
I thought of being like a Frenchman
or at least maybe the charm, or so women say
I can’t speak the language; but so what?
I wondered about understanding what’s good
not swept up in things, but knowing myself
there’s a style about living
we each have our own
we don’t even know it, but everybody else does
they watch, as we walk, noticing our eyes
what they notice
if they are hard
or soft
can we or should we remain as we are
or do we just accessorize
taking on someone else’s ideas for ourselves
transforming us because we are looking
for something
downstairs at the front of the book store
or upstairs alone in a chair, sinking into the past
stretching and sighing
where is my wine glass?
oh, only single serving bottles
plastic
ok, it doesn’t mean I’m not a Frenchman
not the plastic
not the age of the wine
not the fact that I’m not one
but is my charm apparent to anyone
this Westie I noticed knows
he knows that I like Westies
he knows
he saw my soft eyes
how can you know me so well little Westie?
it’s because he looked and I looked back
I was able to smile as long as I wanted
instead of glancing
pretending I’d hardly noticed
even though I had
for a long time
I stared at my coffee
the wine was just talk
I was only wishing
it’s breakfast and I’m already thinking about wine
but your dress
and your eyes
yes, they are soft
but maybe you’re just sleepy
so I’ll blow out the imaginary candle
next to the imaginary wine
burn my lips on my coffee cup, freshly poured
and go
maybe I’ll see someone crazy enough to make me laugh
that’s why I live in this town
to hear someone singing
as we all stare
wondering about him
and why we are dreamers
who imagine moments instead of living them