Finding a Page

It’s funny for no reason.
Watching the writer, smoke,
breathing out of her arched,
Jewish nose.
Behind her pierced ears
are chains of blonde hair
and sunglasses define a stern brow.

She sees no color on the street.
All the cars are smoke.
As she walks for the door,
her mind grows legs,
wonders to the last page,
stomps a fly and scribbles
“The End” with its collapsed black wing.

Her blonde brother or partner.
The man in the red shirt.
The boy with the same haircut
-like a soup bowl- since he went to church
with his mother
and his face was pearly
and cheeks grew no hair
but wore the smile of youth
or a face painted dragonfly.

The man in the red shirt now,
wears a smile the writer gave him
on the third day they met,
reads all the crinkled pages
from the trash bin,
rewinds the writers thin frame
and washes her face with a fine jewelry cloth,
for her features are sliver,
her thighs, empty cardboard boxes,
filled only with the thoughts she can draw in English.

The writer is always alone.
She sips coke, like its the ocean.
Dances like autumn, the dead leaf's,
anyone could see are pages in her notebook,
and smoke was always the inspiration,
carving her world of madness.
The jellyfish and the snowman.
The common place gardener.

She lives her life so detached,
with him in the 7th ring,
spinning with the clouds,
in front of the sun,
not by her bedside,
by the island shore.

They are at a cafe table.
Him reading, her dreaming.
Each carrying the weight of
solitude.