Read a book
Look at yourself reading a book
Position the cover just so
To impress a passer-by with the erudition
Of its cover.
I saw a photograph once
A book cover, maybe?
A woman in repose
Gazing out the window
-- of a train, maybe?
Her eyes, thoughtful
Her hand resting lightly on the open pages
As if considering what she had just read
Meditating on its meaning.
A cup of coffee, long gone cold
Sits on the pull-up table.
Maybe she’s on her way back
From a business trip
Or just on the metro from work.
She seems serious and content,
Dressed just right
-- not too much, not too little—
The sort of careless elegance
That comes with assurance.
Now she raises a hand
Brushes a strand of shiny grey,
Tucks it behind a silvered ear,
Lowers her eyes to the printed words.
I’ve never quite managed
To emerge from that picture
And finish the book.
…
It’s quiet in the small, dim breakfast room
When she eases herself into a spot
By the window (naturally) with a view
-- such as it is.
Painting her face in nonchalance
She orders a masala omelette
With practiced professionalism.
Then, laying down her phone (screen-side-up) and book (always, the book)
On the creaseless white of the small square table
She rises, walks a few steps
In unclicking high heels
And serves herself a bowl of fruit.
…
She’s the first in the boardroom
Fashionably early
Takes a spot in the middle
-- not too near, not too far—
From centres of power
And corners of dissent.
The handbag hangs comfortably on the chair;
Phone, pens, notebook
Arranged just so.
Now to sit back and wait
To be watched.
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