Later


Who would she be
if she was born earlier
with D-Day as a daily freshly
told story. The war 
not yet history

The beatnik with the black turtleneck
clandestine rimmel around the eyes,
circling in smoky circles, 
fraternizing with the blues.
With the residue of cheap wine
stuck to her tongue, pouching her lips
to the audience and the bad boys, 
conversations with drunk painters

or would she be secluded from the world
in a room with the smell of old velour
and potato peels, reaching for the radio, too high, 
tuned to nasal voices, 
her knitting within an arms reach.
Sometimes leaving the house, on her bicycle,
white socks under a bell dress
cringingly checkered
past fields of yellow primroses

At home the pot with stew
on a linoleum covered kitchen table
after that some tapioca pudding in a
chipped bowl that stands dripping in the 
granite sink an hour later.

In her cold room the light
already died.
She folds herself in silence
and saves herself for later.