RICHMOND.1963

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A BOY A MEETS A GIRL IN RICHMOND IN 1963

Submitted: December 14, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 14, 2014

A A A

A A A


I get off the bus to Richmond
and Chaya's waiting for me.

She's dressed in red and white
and her blonde hair is free flowing.

How was the journey?

Long, but worth it.

Bit like life, then.

Sometimes.

She smiles
and we walk
through the park.

I know a café
we can go for a drink
and bite to eat,
she says.

That'd be good.

So she takes me
to this café
on the other side
of the park
and we sit down
and a young girl
takes our order
and walks away.

There's a new group
called the Rolling Stones
played here recently;
they’re good.

I'm an Elvis fan myself,
but I think my sister,
Alma, has a record of there's.

She takes out a cigarette
and offers me one;
we light up
and she puts
the packet away.

These guys play
bluesy rock;
the lead singer's
quite a character;
got his autograph.

Our coffees come
and we sip in silence
for awhile.

How's your work?
I ask.

Steady; I have a few
acting bits.

How's your work?

Boring, but it pays me ok
and keeps me
fed and watered.

What do you do
when you're not working?

I write.

Write what?

Plays and short stories.

Have to read them sometime;
especially the plays.

Not up to scratch, yet.

I look at her hair
and wish I could touch it;
run my fingers through it,
but I don't of course,
I just gaze at her.

Am I that interesting?
She asks

Yes, you are, pretty.

She laughs.

No one has called me
pretty before,
maybe pretty boring.

No, you are;
your lovely blonde hair,
those eyes of yours,
your figure.

She smiles.

Well if you say so, Baruch;
but my father says
not to get too
above myself,
but to be who I am.

We finish our smokes
and coffees
and walk on back
through the park
and lay on the grass
under the warm sunshine.

A brass band
is playing over the way.

People pass by;
kids calling,
laughing.

She lays on her back;
I lay beside her;
feel her next to me;
my body alive
to her presence.

I'm off next week
to Scotland;
got a part in a play.

I look at her.

That's good;
how long for?

As long as it runs;
it's only a small part,
but Daddy says
it all helps my craft;
I’ll write when
I’m back in Richmond.

I feel a sense of sadness,
buy joy for her,
mixed.

I want to kiss her,
but feel it might not
be the right time.

I lay there studying her
as she talks on
about the play;
I think I love her,
but cannot say.


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