Natalie

She had an eastern European accent;

I could have listened to her read the phone book--

All those hard R's.

It was like being under the influence of something...

She made me want to wait in a bread line, or watch some awful art film with my head on her shoulder and my hand,

Like an afternoon cloud,

Drifting under her skirt.



Surely I should join an Order,

Forget what I have seen and felt.

Pigeons mock me--

They teem everywhere I go,

Like pick-pockets speaking Romany.

I am in a bare room,

Questioned in a language I do not understand,

But the answers are as clear as the water in a town-square fountain in Belgrade in the spring...



-- her eyes, dark as crow's wings.

--her fingers, with rings of every precious metal.

--her words, faintly obscene.

--her name, Natalie, like a loaf of bread on a wooden table.



I knew her several years ago.

She had hair like an approaching storm.

I don't know where she is now,

But I think of her

Whenever I see pigeons on the sidewalk

Outside the old bakery door on Verlaine Street.

_______

Note: yes, there was a real Natalie. She was from California, lol.

written for One Shot Wednesday