she's a real snapdragon

on the sidewalk she’s standing with her back against the 711 brick wall, headphones on, nodding her head in agreement with what is no doubt some shouted political rhetoric from whatever new and enthused punk band (or perhaps some semi-trendy retro-punk like the sex pistols) has come along, but even so, her boots are strap boots and she’s holding a copy of rimbaud in her palms, turning it over and I can see the notes she’s made in here chicken scratch along the margins pointing out her favorite pieces and portions: this line she has underlined because it speaks to her, which is the only real reason to underline anything and that’s why, when she asks me for a smoke, I give her one without much hesitation and stand there to chat with her for a few minutes before I shuffle my heels on back home and when I did, she came with me and we laughed a bit, watched a decent film and then flipped through books for hours.
Me: do you like henry miller. (I ask this question because it is of the highest importance)
Her: sometimes.
Her voice is raspy, but heartfelt and it makes me smile. So when she gave me her number as she was leaving I figured I might just call her sometime. She’s a real snapdragon and those are so hard to find these days.

2004-10-22 | 11:24 a.m.
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