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Reading Gone Girl alone
in a downtown café
Marvin Gaye and Jim Croce
jockeying for all-time best balladeer
you could pardon a gal
for thinking it’s a cruel kind
of retro world except—
that somewhere in the middle
of a clue dropped
by the missing heroine
I look up to catch
a glimpse of your tall dark
shadow with a sweep of tartan
scarf like a thoroughbred’s mane
passing the plate
glass window
and the pale cool offering
of fiction overturns
and spills
coins of new fortune
wet and foreign
at my feet
as if the Trevi fountain
had burst a billion wishes
through some wrinkle in time
and the novel spins from a patch
of melting snow with the same arc
and grace as you turning
on a dime
and walking
back this way.
~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Oceantics 
Ah, I absorbed this one the way I drink in a movie trailer at an art cinema, (i.e. starry-eyed, breathless, and eager for the full version to hit the theater.)
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hehe, thank you, Bridge. It’s been an extremely vivid week, and reading Gillian Flynn’s extraordinary fiction adds to the hyper-drive.
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This touches me Elaine: I wonder how to build on this. You have had more experience with the frustration of coinage in the literary world than I. My experience has been with the coinage of frustration. A beautiful capsule here. Lutia
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I love your reflective reframing, Lutia, thank you. This poem rose like a little dust devil. I hope it uplifts us all.
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Eyes watering with the bitter wind
I could not see her eyes or mouth
reflected in the window
as I hurried past the coffee shop
but her golden hair and Michaelangeloican
fingers holding an open book
nearly spun me around toward the door
as I counted the thin few coins
in my pocket–scarce enough for a
decent bottle of water let alone
a coffee and what if she wanted a wine.
I don’t think she saw me as I turned
into the ally at mid street and slowly
turned and walked past again hoping
to get a look at her eyes, her smile
but I saw only her hair and those fingers
lightly holding open her book.
Tomorrow I shall skip lunch
and walk again this way–
surely she won’t finish her book by then.
D. Russel Micnhimer 2-26-2015
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Interesting, the images we pick up on and expand from what surrounds us. A fun poem, Russel, thank you!
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oooohhh. that was a tingle.
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Thank you kindly, b! 🙂
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