English poet #5

The breeze descents
through the rustling leaves
and meanders
through the evening crowd
feeling the heartbeats if joggers,
caressing the passion of lovers,
trying to escape the chatter of lumpens
till it spots the girl alone
sitting on a concrete bench
head bent, shoulders down.
The breeze whispers, "lonely girl..... "
The girl looks up,
raises the book from her lap,
"I am Aline, but not lonely.
I am with the Great Gatsby! "