Poem and Art by
Your voice leaves a bookmark on the hardcover
you're holding. Your shadow is expecting
the end of a season.
This is merely guesswork. I imagine
your response to a speechless poster
on a wall, a woman walking a dog,
a loud squeak of a broken doorknob...
But I saw you that evening, one hand
in a pocket. You were talking to a
writer, or maybe two.
not knowing you. You were pretending too.
We lost a chance to eye-kiss.
Now you are still reading, and the sun
shines on you. And I go on guessing
more and more about you.