fresh snow begins to fall exiting bodega 64 with laura. i leave her at metro st paul and head on alone. roses peek out from under hoods of ice at parc royal and my footprints are the first on the snow. thin lines of white on the wrought iron fence around the church, the gate cracked open like an unfinished sentence or maybe an invitation. yellow laughter spills warmly from second story apartments and the honeyed light form their gatherings illuminates the thin flurries in the sky. on the corner of richard lenoir and oberkampf, the oyster shucker bends over his basket of fruits de mer as a broad woman makes her order. his hands are deft despite the cold, i imagine they are red beneath his black rubber gloves. on my block, the smokers huddle in street in front of the bars. steam rises from their small circles like smoke signals to across the street. we're over here! me, too.
at the restaurant, the waiter complimented my french so vehemently that i blushed all the way up to the ears.
No comments:
Post a Comment