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Vintage View He walks in grace like an aristocrat surveying his minions. He's there every morning as I vault from the bus in front of my office building and I wonder at his presence, his purpose, and where he's striding, head slightly forward. If he sees me, it's as part of the background, another pedestrian worker en route to tedium. I picture the two of us in a small Italian courtyard, his head inclined to mine, his eyes delighted in what I recount of my day, my balanced accounts. His elegant fingers reach to brush a wisp of hair from my cheek and his touch vibrates, a river coursing through silted land, bruising with one careless caress. So on I trudge, another five/forty, another countdown toward entropy. But one day I will stop, my eyes will sear his soul, and he will know. No ordinary person this but a promise of tawny port wine, his to savor if he will pause to pluck me, sun-ripened, awaiting the vintner's hand. |
Additional Notes:
This poem won first place in a national contest sponsored by a professional
writers' group and was published in their chapbook in July 2000.
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