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