|
On Karl Johan |
Where the train station empties
at the top of the pedestrian street,
a woman in an orange down jacket
sobs in the summer downpour
and a man with a black umbrella
pauses, then hurries on to the Bristol
where another woman sits waiting
in a deep leather chair,
wet canvas shoes,
stirring orange pekoe tea and thinking
about the woman neither of them will mention,
(the path rain over her cheekbones,
down her neck,
under the shiny collar)—
He had found an excuse to
adjust something about the handle
of his briefcase, leaning against the railing,
then squatting with a practiced look of purpose.
He had noticed her clean fingernails,
watched the rain beat her lacquered hair,
and thought to wait for her
to wait for her weight to shift
away or toward him,
to provide him with a cue—
But she continues to stare
down Karl Johan,
a slack shouldered,
stiff-spined stick puppet
street musician settled into
one wholly unambivalent chord.
He’d jerked
the weight of his briefcase,
the handle into place
in his grasp, and
gone.
copyright 2008
Ren
Powell |
