Poetry Prose Or Something Else
She walked in casually, like she did not know how kind she was.
But her aura was flaming with it. And I felt it immediately.
She sat down, and began to write. I watched, and was mesmerized.
The words were flying out of her fingertips. It was magic.
I had never seen anyone write in public like that. With full confidence.
She was biting her tongue in concentration. It was wonderful to behold.
Apparently writing was not a secret in her world. Talent above the table.
Nothing hidden, no embarrassment about it. Just blatant writing.
Her hands were moving quickly across the page. The pen flying.
She would occasionally stop and look up from her thoughts.
Never really looking at the people, it was a restaurant after all,
People pretend other people are invisible in restaurants, right?
I could not keep my eyes off her. Confidence was popping out of her.
I wanted to run over and look at her pages, but it would have been
Like tweaking someone’s petootsie in an elevator. Inappropriate.
She was writing in color now, and throwing down images.
Was it poetry? Prose? Or something else? I will never know.
I wanted to run over and sit down and say “What are you writing?”
But I am too socialized for that. Besides, it might have slowed her
Down or stopped her completely, which I did not want to see.
Fear held me back. I was afraid she might apologize for being a writer.
How would I feel if she would have started saying horrible things like…
“I am not a real writer, no good, just practicing, really?”
I sat, mesmerized, believing her kind and confident, pleased for her.
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