THE GIRL IS A GOOD LOOKING

girl, she has sleek blonde hair and a snub nose, large lake-water eyes. Her dark jeans are cut very low and tight, and she wears a grey off-the-shoulder sweater over her flat French film-star breasts, and red or green or dull white slippers. Bare ankles, of course. Whether she wears any jewelry or not, a piercing in the nose, the lip, the ears, the navel, I never know, because I never cross the dusty summer pavement and speak to her, and she never crosses the cold spring road and talks to me. But we smoke cigarettes together, Player’s, Kools, and sit in the early morning or evening, or late at night, summer or snow falling or rain or a warm breeze, me on this side of the street on my wooden stairs, her on that side of the road on her concrete steps. I don't know anything about her, though, nothing else. She might be royalty, maybe, maybe a queen.