I asked if she was still there.
She said she'd come by.
It's snowing again, I warned.
Books scattered.
Useless for love making.
6 months since I'd brought a girl
to my place.
Emphatic, categorical, she pointed out
a fly squashed
on the other side of the window.
Like spitting at a mirror, I recalled.
A kind of poet.
Carefree and happy.