another day

she wears a coat
not unlike
virginia woolf
might
with a fur
collar, sand
brown and long,
three
black buttons,
to below
her knees
where her laced
boots rise
against the skeletons
of winter
leaves.
she's prone to sighing
on cold
days such as this.
impatient with
the weather,
with me and where
our love might go,
or not go.
but she'll see it
through
another day, why
not. why not, she
says to no one,
waiting for the train,
a stone
in the deep of
her pocket.