Coffeehouse Sonnet (12)
Michael Ceraolo
for Julie
She graced the place on a Saturday afternoon,
blonde hair and hazel eyes brightening drab December,
a scarf screening her sleek sexy neck,
slowly sipping her coffee chin sitting in hand,
mysteriously scribbling in a notebook
until interrupted by an equally mysterious phone call,
for which she walked past with a purposeful grace
in order to take it in the privacy of outside
Introductions, and she shakes hands with meaning
I ask if she is a writer and she laughs demurely,
saying that she was just jotting down her schedule,
that she is in fact an artist,
one who works in the medium of metal
An artist and a work of art all in one
