Friday, June 02, 2006
She sits crouched in the corner
on the floor down below,
in the first aisle of the bookstore.
Coal black hair trying to stray from
a baby plastic clip the color of green antifreeze
catching stray sunlight.
Alice Munro doesn’t quite do it for her.
She stands, shifts right, twists left hip forward
and stares at a Palakniuk cover.
Still unsatisfied, turning from the neck,
shoulders following, she flees the aisle
and glides over to non-fiction.
She lingers in my vision
for three sedate breaths and
disappears into classics.
The moment turns inside out
when she leaves my sight.
She is likely trading verses with
Beatrice in one of Dante's cantos.