The Little Side Street

I looked longingly at the lithe figure
way down the block where the warehouses are;
several times I looked as she grew bigger—
leaning on the stoop, smoking a cigar.

Evening asserted itself in a breeze—
I thought of those who are gone, like the day—
riffling and swaying the small planted trees
in a forgotten melancholy way;

and I sang “The Girl from Ipanema,”
eluding the words but I knew the tune.
The weather was perfect for a dreamer…
the molten glaring sun would go down soon.

Just then—she must have been dreaming as I—
the girl was up to me, turned and said, “Hi.”

 David Francis