She stands there with her back pressed firmly against the red brick wall.
Her breath swirls into the smoke emitting from her cigarette –
The two dance wildly together through the cold night air.
She appears to be impatiently waiting for someone,
But you know that she’s not,
Because she stands there every Friday night around this time.
No, she’s alone.
She’s simply worn “unapproachable” like a sweater
Since she was fourteen years old.
Because invisible feels a lot less lonely when felt on purpose.
You almost spoke to her last Friday
As you watched her drop a dime into a parking meter
Just in time to deflect someone’s parking ticket
And spark fire in the meter maid.
“Rebel with a good cause. “
You almost said to her.
But then you realized how ridiculous it sounded,
And it took you far too long to think of.
So instead, you sat quietly inside the coffee shop
Sipping your tea.
Because that’s as rebellious as you‘ve ever been.
But tonight feels different.
She looks nervous.
You clock the worry on her brow,
And innately you stand.
As a child, your mother accidentally taught you
That you should fix all that is broken.
So your legs carry you out the door,
Poetry in hand, to greet the woman you’ve only
Admired from afar.
“Los Angeles is cold at night.” She says aloud.
Not really to you, or anyone.
“It is.” You respond anyway.
Aware of your presence, she glances at your hands.
“Still reading that one?”
And your heart pounds
As it settles in
That she’s noticed you too.