in a day, 12:42
the office clocks say:
Closed Twelve to One.
A tiny nod to the siesta, to pranzo,
not enough time to go anywhere
and come back. Yet how can she be
vexed when this modest impediment
to her perpetual motion
outside the locked door,
errand undone, she conjures those days in Soreze –
the afternoon queue at the boulangerie
for a fresh baguette to accompany
steaming beets or haricot verts,
a soft cheese, some figs,
a small glass of wine
a lazy feeling
a little lie down,
just shoes kicked off
sunlight through lace,
a hand on her breast,
is there time?