Waltzing Through Bern, Switzerland
Maybe, no older that late 20’s,
dressed with the face of poverty
and a wild sense of care-free,
thin and poorly clothed, her
shoulder-length brown hair
thickly matted and her fierce
eyes, bursting and erupting
with a crazed energy:
she attracted the attention of
awkward and bemused
passers-by,
her dance-like movements
were fluent and surreal and
spontaneous and somehow,
graceful and uninhibited,
free of your world,
as she checked out the
street ashtrays for cigarette
butts:
my wife and I were seated
outside at a café table,
drinking tea and smoking
cigarettes and as she
glided by, I outstretched a
hand with a half pack of
smokes, which she latched
onto without pause as
she shrieked and skipped out
of view and into this poem
and into the
scourge of memory.
Horror Sleaze Trash 