the plum blossoms are falling

saw craig sitting in his car—windows up, a light rain coming down, his face buried in a songwriting notebook. glad he pulled over when he found some inspiration.

he didn't see me walk by but i kept looking back all the way until hintonburg even though i'm doubtful he would want to chat with me. still, for the past eighteen months i've counted every black smart car i'd find. i'd look at the license plate and peer through the windows. there was a hope to be noticed i suppose. 

what was he doing in chinatown?