One Night by the River
The woman, a figure cut from the evening fog,
languid, who sat on a bench beside the river,
like one of those statues that tourists take their pictures with.
The woman who cursed and said
I’m not a prostitute.
I said I’m not looking for a prostitute,
She said you look like a prostitute-customer to me,
but hinted at a smile.
The woman who I gave my address to
because I didn’t know what else to do.
The woman who I asked if the fog was always on the river.
Who said it often hid the Parliament building it was so thick.
Did she go to university? Work in a book shop?
The woman who whispered, I am an actress and
I sell shirts in a men’s store.
Where did you get your rich money, Mr. American?
The woman I wrote to, but she probably just made up the address.
Whose accent still feels like evening scent.
Like a famous movie star or a dream half-remembered.
I made a joke.
I got the hiccups.
She laughed and laughed.
The letter probably in the river.
The woman who probably just threw my letter in the river.
Heavy Snow Turns Random City Dwellers into Photographers
Fuck this efficiency and the radiator I can’t shut off, but I do like this pic of the snow swirling under the streetlight. I may murder my kids if the schools close again, but don’t they look perfect making a snowman in the park? Driving a cab in the snow like this is shit, but here’s a selfie I took with the lady who gave me a $50 tip for pushing her car out of a snowbank. I’m a therapist between appointments and my next is a CEO with daddy issues, but here’s a really sweet picture of snow piling up on my window ledge.
Ronald Geigle is a writer and poet living in Arlington, Virginia. His writing has been published in The New Mexico Review and The Plum Tree Tavern literary journal. He is the author of the 2104 novel, The Woods, set in the U.S. Pacific Northwest during the waning years of the Great Depression.