A woman in a cotton dress
And green cloth coat
Does not attract desirous stares,
Seated at her round white table
In a corner of a drab café.
The open book she does not read,
The cup of coffee she does not drink,
The chocolate mousse her fork has yet to cut,
Her knitted purse and yellow hat --
Claim only one small portion
Of the round white space before her,
Leaving ample room for any stranger
Who might come along to share her table;
Who never comes to share her table.
The woman's hands in front of her
Are obedient quiet children
Who never know the joy of misbehavior.
Her mouth is sad with knowing
That it will not be called upon tonight to speak,
It will not be called upon to smile.
Her eyes don't lift to watch the waiter,
Don't secretly study other patrons.
They do not see.
But somewhere deep within the eyes,
Hide almost forgotten dreams Of masked balls in Monte Carlo, Sunlit beaches in Jamaica, Midnight walks beside the Seine, A frenzied Carnival in Rio.
The woman's shoulders though...
Ah, they have a different story.
They are not romanticists, these shoulders.
They tell tales instead of
Long days at a typewriter,
Commuting to work on crowded busses,
Solitary meals in cafeterias,
A radio turned low in a lonely bedroom.
But perhaps a time will come
Before the night is through,
When the woman's arms will tense,
And her hands will curl half-way to fists.
Her mouth will know the need to say
Those things too long unspoken.
But a minute later the shoulders once again will drop,
And the woman will pick up her fork
And eat her mousse.
She'll drink her coffee,
Put on her yellow hat,
And leave.