SHERLOCK HOLMES IN LOVE

Across 221 B, Baker Street is a twenty four hour Starbucks
That, in the London fog, appears metaphorical-
The mannequin air hostesses; CHATTING,
the varsity students; READING,
the leg- flashing escort girls; SERENADING,
the call center yuppies; EATING
the stressed waitress; forcing smiles as stale as their coffee, into their cups,
and others who're obviously Moriarty's men in disguise


As different as these people are,
Everything about them is illusory and incidental
I look closely
Some of them don't even have faces
Perhaps they're merely part of another story, a bigger story
Someone else's story..

…...
She isn't conventionally beautiful
She wears thick rimmed, black glasses over her eyes
I think, not only to read the book
But also to conceal the dark circles underneath them
Fleetingly visible when she looks up into the diffused light



The book is wrapped in a makeshift newspaper cover
Shrouding it in as much mystery as its reader
She could be anything from seventeen to thirty
But by the thickness of the book
And the way her eyebrows lovingly frown when concentrating,
Thus making faint lines on her copyright forehead,
I infer that she is exactly twenty six years, two months and three days


The translucent windowpane makes her face appear distorted;
Like italics
Or a lopsided smile
She could be Mediterranean, Latin American, even from the Middle East
Her nose is small, hardly formed, very Oriental
However, with her eyes, which exude a very intellectual sensuality
And the newspaper: 'The Statesman',
I gather that she is from India; more specifically, Calcutta


The air hostesses stare at her.
Others surreptitiously glance.
Like she has tattoos on her face or something
But she hardly ever looks up

She is not skimming through the book; rather she seems engrossed in it
And uninterested in her lukewarm coffee and the virtually untouched croissant
From this and the depth to which the parsley has sunk into the butter
I perceive she's ordered these just to buy privacy
Than for their functionality as food groups
Plus, she's had better


Also from all this hullabaloo
And her blue jeans, faded; not from the store, but from repeated washing,
Below her white, oversize man's shirt,
Peeping from under her black cardigan,
That tries to desperately to be anonymous
But for the unmistakable Versace monogram upon it;
I deduce that she is an actress


From her bottle of Perrier,
I extrapolate the existence of the Pacific ocean
Really now....
But then again-
Why are we interested in her?
Why not someone else?
I don't know.
For some reason, she commands our unwavering attention,
As though is is presumed.
Hers is the story we have to follow


Maybe because
Something tells us
She would know that Mont Blanc is pronounced 'Maw Bleau'
She wouldn't laugh during Tati's comedies, recognizing them instead as tragedies
She would rather write a rock song than have one written for
She wouldn't think that all men who write prose are pretentious
She would rather read JG Ballard than Mills & Boons
She would rather have incognito coffee at Starbucks than lose herself in Hilton crowds
Something tells us
Her name starts with a W


And though occasionally, the book makes her smile
She is broken.
I deduce this
From a slow tear that has spilled her coffee
And left its imprint
On the fringes of her eyes
On her finger, the second one from the left, on her left hand;
There is a bandage
That either
(a) conceals a wedding ring, or
(b) dresses a wound.
But either way,
It doesn't stop her bleeding