2002-03-19 - 9:16 p.m.
The lonely sound of a harmonica. Nothing is ever just a noun. Words don't fail. Your imagination does. I saw him in his suit and glasses. Only this time he wasn't standing by the pole. He was walking. I saw her again, in the same burgundy round-neck and black tube skirt. Isn't it funny, that us three have tuned our lives to cross. Yet we'll never meet. No, not technically. But I'll see you as you wait, and perhaps you too, will catch my stare. I see them putting out flowers every morning. Gladioli, irises, pesty daisies, amongst the morning banter. Sometimes the golden streaks of light make them squint. Sometimes the morning fog slows them down. Satin pleats fall down my knees. Marble-eyes lit with agitated piquancy. Black voile ironed flat. Damp hair teasing my jawline. A whole street's dogs in chorus.
