waitress poems

Monday, December 12, 2005


We know the hour.
A book laid aside,
she has given in to
the somnolence
that overtakes us all
when the sun turns coy
in our window.
she lets us see
what a sketch of her nakedness
cannot reveal:
the thighs grown slack,
resolute cheer
of her bright-bowed shoes.
Beside her,
a vase of purple flowers
leaps and flares.
But dreaming the story of her life,
she takes no notice.
Forever she will be
as we are:
a figure with a mirror to her back,
revealing to others
what she cannot know herself:
the bravery and silliness
of the table
she has laid with care,
the darkness her body
both defines and denies.


  • Amazing! I love it, Patry.

    By Blogger Anna Piutti, at 11:25 AM  

  • Beautiful.

    By Blogger MB, at 2:40 PM  

  • I like very much how you give her a personality outside of the work of art a woman caught in time forever as she was.

    By Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson, at 11:46 AM  

  • matisse

    and poems about matisse . . .

    it's like dancing

    By Blogger camera shy, at 4:24 PM  

  • Anna and Moose: Thank you!

    sue: everyone is a character for me. that's the fiction writer in me, I guess.

    blog this: yes, dancing!

    By Blogger Patry Francis, at 7:37 AM  

  • 'the thighs grown slack' is a great line. Nice blog.

    By Blogger aardvark, at 6:10 AM  

  • As a dancer and an artist, I enjoyed the portrait you painted with words here! I like the casual feel to your poem as well.

    "Wwhe the sun turns coy"- MMM! delicious personification here and
    "...purple flowers
    leaps and flares"" Vivid dancing images in my favorite colour

    By Blogger GEL, at 9:16 PM  

  • This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    By Blogger oxeye, at 8:51 PM  

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