The Victorian Woman Reading Across From Me

I am a big fan of time travel in books and movies and in any theoretical physics that gives me a hint of it being a possibility. Stephen Hawking was known to host a party with an open invitation to all the time travelers. No one ever showed up. Where are the time travelers who have arrived in our time?

So, when I sat in a cafe recently at the table across from a very pretty woman who looked by her dress, hair, and even the old, hardcover book she was reading like she might be a time traveler from the past, I was inspired to write a poem.

It was also amazing that I looked right at her face and she smiled very seductively (or so I imagined) at me. Then I looked down at my phone to type the poem and when I looked up at her again, she had disappeared. I didn’t see her get up or exit. Only her teacup remained to tell me that she had really been there.

She is a kind of time traveler.
Young, well, younger than me, and pretty.
Delicate hand holding tea, her book open,
her diaphanous dress suggesting something to me.
She looks at me, smiles, and disappears.

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