Puzzled by the beauty
Behind me on the train,
She doesn't know I'm writing
Of her, not dreams or pain
It's rare I write of someone
When I don't know her name.
I think I'll call her "Laura;"
Petrarch did the same.
He named her that for sound:
For puns, for words, for diction.
He lost her in the plague,
But that is not my fiction.
My Laura sits behind me
And doesn't even notice
My pencil on the paper,
Erasing why I wrote this.
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