Five quiet moments as the shuttle pulls away, carefully perfumed secretaries clutching at their indistinguishable black purses, scrutinizing each others' skirts, avoiding the crossing of gazes.
Five quiet moments and all laden looks pause for effect on my tired running shoes, fleece shirt, the blouses and skirts and slippery nylons put away for this week.
Five quiet moments as knees accustomed to mountains and pitfalls nonchalantly absorb the twists and turns on the p�ripherique, my not-powdered-enough nose free to hide itself in the pages of a T.S. Elliot compilation
re-reading the line
"I shall sit here serving tea to friends"
and shuddering at the coldness of the poem, and the subtle insinuation that the protrait of a lady
is painted in china tea sets and bowls of lilac flowers
but without the barest brushstroke of warmth or love in the stone-and-marble bower.
This evening as it falls away from afternoon, I will stir sugar with my countless coffeespoons, close up my work, take careful notes on progress past
And I will walk away at last and spend the days wandering the cobbled streets
As they mutter each to each
Of the footsteps echoing expensive boots and constricted feet.
Thursday, Friday off, phone calls to a migrant friend, a road trip to Brussels for the housewarming party of the couple who'd graced every one of mine last time I lived just three hours south of here (in the truer wilds of France).
But tonight, for hallowe'en we dance.
Tomorrow we make plans, amends, and we go to visit friends.
In europe, you can do that. Hop a train with the change in your pocket and have dinner in Belgium.
Maybe breakfast in Germany, and a sunset in Spain.
But first, I have to finish these damned scavengers of the brain before I can take a comfortable vacation.
I will be back Monday.
I will talk to you then.