the windmill

a restaurant, almost a windmill
is churning past her in sections,
morning-afternoon-night
between mumbled pleasantries at bent elbows
(bacon, coffee-grind and cold cheese?)
until faces are worn and familiar,
almost predictable.

she fails to register
their slightly amorphous contours;
she paints mentally
like the man who replicates Renoirs
-lovingly, but without loyalty.

in between she sews one broken smile
to another and watches
frown-lines smooth, question, hope
then flaring up again like

forceful coins on scratch-cards

she knows the routes to winning
but prefers chalk arrows on roads
less taken.

she believes in coincidences.