Francesca (poem)

Francesca

he came, with tablet and stylus, sketching her

he took a seat… too near, at the fountain’s base

and said, “do you care?”

she drew her memobook and started a romance

“don’t bend,” he said

“your hair is covering your face”

She wrote, Francesca met him on a Thursday

Her giant sweater red and white, nubby tweed

The wet stone smell, the mist on her face, gave refuge

She wondered, at times, because he had walked the dog

Did passersby see what he’d worn, look twice

Then say to themselves, no, it’s some woman

In her grief, she had let a shelter take the pup

And felt unqualified now, for pity

In life, Dodie was her name

Not short for anything, and hampering

In life she wore black, black sweatshirt, black leggings

But she liked Francesca, the widowed Francesca

Dodie had never had a pet in her apartment

Only once a fish in a bowl

She felt guilty about the fish

the sketcher said, “here, see this.”

Francesca

Cenotaph

(2022, Stephanie Foster)