There is
the open book
her inquisitive look
the way
with one stockinged leg
hanging over
the arm
of the chair
the centre parted
wavy dark hair
and he sitting
across from her
at the writing desk
writing to his mother
saying how good
he was being
all alone in Paris
reading the books
she'd sent
paying his way
paying the rent
eating out
working in
getting
the studying done
leaving the girls alone
no late nights
no booze
no cigarettes
no sadness
or regrets
and looking up
from the letter paper
seeing her opposite
with his book
open on her lap
her black
laddered stockings
the way she sits
invitingly
him smiling
dotting the i's
and crossing
the t's
periods at the end
whispering
to the dame
be there soon
kisses on the bottom
of the letter
for mother
and the dame's
(bottom)
maybe later
letting the ink dry
imaging what
beneath
the dame's dress
and underclothes
may wait
and his
deep sigh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem