She perfected her disorder In ballet. She suffered, then she loved The classes, Ordered and exact, As long as she remembered. Now, her skinny frame Is shaking like a slender willow In a tempest Here inside the heated coffee house In mid-November. She is pulling her enormous creamy scarf To wrap her pretty, pale, uncovered shoulders. "I am quitting smoking," She apologizes, Hands as skittish As a Coltrane solo. I cannot ignore The echoes of anxiety Like watching children playing near the edges Of the roof too high above The city street. The ambers set above Her rolling cheeks Still glisten mellow As they float in currents, Choppy streams of rushing thought. She asks if I frequent this place And just how long I've used the app. Her beautiful brown eyes are quicky caught, Capsizing under trickling waters. "Sorry. I'm sorry," Napkin to her eggshell face, Flat shoes the softest scurry Out the ringing door. - 6/11/26