Ill take, always, a gander
at the beautiful: this time
at the long black hair,
the short black skirt,
the razor thin pantyhose
and the black high heels.
Shes easing my way through
the monotonous landscape
of upper New York, leavened
only by the Subway shop
with its reasonably priced
array of foot long sandwiches.
I notice The First Circle
on the coverSolzhenitsyn, that
grouch, would have loved this
and wished hed been exiled
to the Indian Continent instead
of to the Winter snows, the Summer
mosquitoes of a lonely Vermont.
At the Buffalo Airport stop
she grabs all her belongings, hawk-like,
and dashes off the blue bus.
I watch her wobble a bit,
but continue on at a spirited pace.
I unwrap the rest of my sandwich,
being as careful as if opening a great
book, eating slowly to make it last.