She sits in the corner, forehead furrowed,
flicks stylish notebook pages back and forth,
seems puzzled by the paucity of words
as though they've run away, escaped, got lost.
The pen, held like cigarette between her fingers,
clacks and drums against her teeth.
She put it down, picks up her coffee cup,
peers at the mirror on the wall as she sips,
tempted to a who’s-the-fairest stare,
a check-what-I-look-like look.
I watch her with sidelong glances,
steal oblique peeks, and put pen to paper.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ann Gibson would be
pleased to hear them.