The Woman With the Demure Smile

It was a lovely spring Paris afternoon. I sat in the same chair at the same table I always sit in. Jacques, the waiter, brought me my usual cognac. I opened my sketch book. My eyes moved from table to table to table, searching for something, or someone, to draw. Several tables away, a woman shyly glanced over at me with those round eyes of hers, eyes as blue as the French sky that canvassed our afternoon. She wore a demure smile. Her lips I imagined speaking softly, breaking the heart of her last lover. My hand began its magic. The pencil drew. Soon I finished a page, then a second. Ten, fifteen empty pages I filled. The woman rose and walked my way. She said nothing, but passed me by, then she was gone. It was a lovely spring Paris afternoon.

micropoem for the day: settling in

There are times when things are just perfect. The day has gone so well it’s enough to make me want another one like it. Supper (or dinner if you prefer) is over. The dishes are washed. So I turn off the computer and the phone. No text messages for the time being. Everybody wants to say hi and ask if you can join them at the local juke joint. Maybe I’ll meet that someone who knows someone who is dating someone whose first cousin is a literary agent. Not this night.

settling in for the night
the cat on the window sill
a book awaits