Night on Bow

The net curtains twitch like a permanent itch
as I gaze from my muddy kitchen window.

The stars will out soon to kill the memory of the day

I spy a young lithe, sunkissed girl showing vibrant late summer
flesh.

She leans against the bronze, baked wall below me and is smoking a long
cigarette with some style.

Her arm makes a flamboyant arc as she pulls this possible Gitane from
her honeyed mouth, a petrol blue haze greedily chases her sleeve.

This girl could have been a ballerina in another lifetime and in
another's hands.

Sixteen years old and the face of Audrey Hepburn.

Quite possibly the most beautiful girl in the world.

Those eyes demand joy.

My own private Roman Holiday.

She looks up, catches my eye before I can step back.

I want to be James Stewart.

She stubs out her cigarette with her Rimini loafer, gathers phlegm in
the back of her throat and attempts to spit it out with some
venom.

Her timing is poor and it dribbles down her chin.

Oh well.