sitting at a wrought iron café table there she was
Parliament cigarettes
a half empty carton buckling at the center
most likely stuffed haphazard in her purse;
her poise like some statuesque angelic beacon
erect and unaffected in the bitter winter breeze

she smokes like so many of them do
terribly self-aware daintily blowing out smoke
between her puckered lips in practiced expression

the scene is awfully pathetic
I’m sneaking looks from across the court
oh god
it’s that moment when our eyes lock
that really makes my blood boil
but I can’t help myself
and I think my morning paper was upside-down

I get up to leave and I looked back
she was still there
maddeningly unapproachable
Parliament cigarettes there on the table
maybe she was waiting for someone

(rewrite.)