the Preservation Society

the lady from the Preservation Society,
knocking on my green door
with her hard hand and midnight feet,
never saw the scooter driver
even though she heard his approach.
he turned abruptly from the river road
onto the cobbled street where i still lived,
and pushed an autumn breeze over his face.
he sped closely by her indifferent look, and never
thought to pause or stop.
an open cafe was serving late drinks in glass mugs
and he was thirsty, finally slowing to find a safe
place to park his bike.
when the motor cut off, he could hear her
hard hand knocking on my green door, but did not turn his head.
inside, as i closed the shutters before walking slowly to my bed,
i watched the night air brush a chill onto the hallway walls
and for a very long time after, i tossed and turned, and
felt sad to be alone.