Deola Thinking

Deola passes her mornings sitting in a cafe, and nobody looks at her. Everyone’s rushing to work, under a sun still fresh with the dawn. Even Deola isn’t looking for anyone: she smokes serenely, breathing the morning. In years past, she slept at this hour to recover her strength: the throw on her bed was black with the boot-prints of soldiers and workers, the backbreaking clients. But now, on her own, it’s different: the work’s more refined, and it’s easier. Like the gentleman yesterday, who woke her up early, kissed her, and took her (I’d stay awhile, dear, in Turin with you, if I could