Somewhere there is a woman in a picture on your computer,
or hard drive, or time machine, maybe --
It’s a cold January night in South Williamsburg.
The woman wears a black dress,
she plays with her necklace,
she holds a glass of wine,
there’s soft light from the bar,
she smiles, she is happy,
she is waiting for you in the brick stone walled room
where the poets read.
You were already there when you took the picture of her,
many pictures, some blurred, too dark;
in one she is earnest,
in one she looks down at her phone to see if you’re coming.
I feel sorry for her. I want to warn her: Don’t wait.
She saw the photos among your files saved on her computer.
It made her believe in you:
If he took a picture of me, she told herself, it must have meant something.