by Sharmagne Leland-St. John
An old woman who looks like Anais Nin
closes green shutters.
From a distance I see her on the balcony.
I noticed her hands gesturing erotically.
They flutter like small brown birds.
Her baroque balcony, wrought of iron
and Lecce stone, the most beautiful
of the ones on either side
or of any along the viale.
You want her to be wearing a red silk kimono
but she is not.
You peer into the darkened room beyond
hoping to see a sqinting, bald headed man
named Henry, smoking
a Gauloises cigarette
held between brown stained fingers,
but she is alone enjoying the solitude
of a sun filled summer day
in the south of Italy.