Snapshots

[PrinceMyshkin]

To feed the pigeons, I hope? I hope the poor guy wasn't that badly in need of food!

I find this an interesting manifestation of the difference in your and my take on life! There was nothing in the scene as I recall it that could objectively disprove your hypothesis but though I hope I haven't tilted the picture one way or another, what you suggest did not even come close to occuring to me!

I DID think there was something a touch furtive in the way he paused before looking into the trash bin, a slight tensing in his back or shoulders in case he was being observed, but that could easily have been my projection as to how I would feel if I were in what I imagined to be his situation.

[CdnReader]

An elderly man in three-piece suit,
open-necked dress shirt,
carrying a furled umbrella
like a jaunty walking stick,

pauses at the trash bin
outside the restaurant,
looks expertly in,
retrieves a half-eaten bun

and carries on along his way.

Gosh. You see it all in Montreal, don'cha?

[PrinceMyshkin]

A turbanned black woman
in a brilliant floral print dress
teeters on chicken legs
across an incurious street.

[Pendragon]

A turbanned black woman
in a brilliant floral print dress
teeters on chicken legs
across an incurious street.

You seem to like my take on your snapshots, so I'll give this one a go. Your mention of "chicken legs" brings to mind a stout figure in the dress, the legs viewd below seemingly to fragile to carry the woman, and out of proportion with the upper half. That gives the image of a chicken.

[PrinceMyshkin]

a man marches by
as if impatient to encounter the enemy,
his mouth set
like a land-mine

[Sweets America]

a man marches by
as if impatient to encounter the enemy,
his mouth set
like a land-mine

Reminds me of what you say about me sometimes!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Reminds me of what you say about me sometimes!

About your mouth, or---?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Five old friends
around a wrought-iron table
outside La Croissanterie
and Lalu, their waitress,
19 and worthy of a black-belt
in pleasantness

[PrinceMyshkin]

The next table over,
this lonely moment,
a woman with jet-black hair,
sun-glasses California-style
on top of her head,
a solitary mole on her neck,
sits immersed in her Journal de Montréal.

'Give me a word,'
I’m tempted to lean over
and say to her: 'Any word...'

[ampoule]

I will give you a word......Pierian Spring. Okay, so that's two.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I will give you a word......Pierian Spring. Okay, so that's two.

That's Pope, right? "Essay on Man"? Something about drinking deep or not...? You feel my "sips" are too shallow?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Lunch-hour at Tutto Bene,
every table is occupied ,
every conversation pitched
full-tilt against the one
social faux-pas, which is silence.

It sounds as if a single
multi-lunged voice rises,
dips occasionally, then rises
again in quest of any corner of the room
that might not yet be filled with sound.

[ampoule]

That's Pope, right? "Essay on Man"? Something about drinking deep or not...? You feel my "sips" are too shallow?

Oh Prince, no no NO. I was taking it from the angle that it is the sacred time for the muses, a time of inspiration. Your snapshots are both inspired and inspiring. Now no more bawling. Sit up. Dry your eyes. Now get snapping!

[Sweets America]

Lunch-hour at Tutto Bene,
every table is occupied ,
every conversation pitched
full-tilt against the one
social faux-pas, which is silence.

It sounds as if a single
multi-lunged voice rises,
dips occasionally, then rises
again in quest of any corner of the room
that might not yet be filled with sound.

Jesus Christ! That's great, Jer! That second stanza is the cherry on top of your poem! My Jer's got talent!!

[AimusSage]

Lunch-hour at Tutto Bene,
every table is occupied ,
every conversation pitched
full-tilt against the one
social faux-pas, which is silence.

It sounds as if a single
multi-lunged voice rises,
dips occasionally, then rises
again in quest of any corner of the room
that might not yet be filled with sound.

Woohoo! woohoo! now this is awesome