Staring at Her

Pink
was the color of the sweater
she was wearing when
I saw her last.
With brownish black hair
that curled around her
face. And her arms
crossed slightly,
just at the wrists.
As if
she were posing
for a portrait.
Not that anyone would
paint a portrait of her.
Only rich, important
people have portraits.
No,
the only portrait of her
is in my memory.
Her sitting there on the bench
wondering why
some stranger was
staring at her.