by Claire Scott
That woman that place
that faded November
sitting at a corner table at Chez Panisse
wearing the winning outfit
out of a carefully-tried-on dozen or more
the rest left scattered on the bed, on the floor
giving her ginger cat a soft place to ponder
a simple cashmere sweater over grey wool pants
a Hermès scarf draped casually
understated so not to overwhelm
understated so not to seem too eager
pale pink lips, eyes shaded a quiet green
a dash of Fabergé, just a dash
the room a bit blurry without thick glasses
glancing every few seconds toward the door
tapping a rhythm on the tablecloth
only she can hear
that woman that place
waiting