Richmond Street

To sit by the window in my apartment
above the shops. Screenless. Curtained with gauzy
white sheets smudged with smoke and car exhaust. My feet
rest on the window ledge, one toe eased into damp
windowbox-soil. Searches out old geranium petals, still-soft
against skin. The room is hot; heavy breath blows curtains,
lifts my skirt to cool the back of clammy knees. Sweat-trickles
tickle the flesh between breasts and shoulder-blades
Suddenly I wish that I hadn't finished yesterday's wine.

Amateur guitar-strumming soothes me.
The street musician plays wildly beside the outdoor
patio where the thirsty exchange of ideas is whetted
by the consumption of ale. Their words ring familiar,
form the lyrics to songs I had forgotten, cause me
to remember fervid coffeeshopbanter of years past.
Nostalgia-warm, I fan my face with a nearby paperback.

Sandaled and blue-skirted girls pass below, necklines
and hair billow with warm wind. They cross
the car-dotted street, past the stone steps
where the black-haired girl sits in late afternoons
scribbling into yellow notebooks. I call across to her
my voice smothered by car-hum and wind. Invite her
to my warm-winded place. To discuss
where we had hoped to be at this time in our lives
on a day like this. To discuss geraniums.