I have invited her for the thousandth time
to join me for conversation
at the café in the village shops
the one that serves both coffee and spirits
I love it there and I know it suits
whatever mood she may be wearing

She goes her own way, that’s for sure
and she cannot be relied on
In a world of schedules and sleek surfaces
she is all bohemian skirts and scarves
and a roomy tapestry bag where she finds
exactly the right thing but never
what she was looking for

I sit and wait, my notebook open,
little doodles climbing in a column
My favorite pen distracting itself
as I watch for my expected friend
to burst through the door in a gush
of wind, to land all over me
in her surprising inevitability
And while I wait, I write anyway