One

The drain of day
Cuts into the figure of our lives,
Concrete cold and still against our feet.

A single digit suggests the frame,
naked, advancing to circle center.
Her robe drops loosely.

Surrounding her
With No. 1 pencils, charcoals
And gum erasers popping into action.

We sit in chairs, benches,
Stools and half-poses, scrawled
Silhouettes and curves.

Sunlight gathers momentum
When inspired, faltering against
The fold of day, a fill of color.

Indigo spills in,
Mouthfuls of night as class closes
And we gather ourselves

And our supplies: horizontals,
Rounds and fan-tips. We leave
In threes and twos and ones.

A thinning stick, her cigarette
Caresses her lips
While she waits for the #2 bus.

Small talk drops and drifts in a swirl
As she flashes away, a half-dead
Ember flickers and dies.