How does my story sound so far?

It was in the violet hour, on a brisk, quiet Tuesday. I was sitting on the edge of a curb, waiting. Beside me: a floral print suitcase and a brown paper bag, and clutched in my frigid hands: a book of poetry. Poetry is often a complicated, perplexing thing. And I was racking my head trying to make sense out of the poem I was reading, so I could see its beauty; see its meaning. I read it over and over, and still, I couldn’t make head or tail of it. So I closed the book, and for the moment, gave up. And just then, in the distance I could see a yellow car. My wait was over. And that yellow car-- that yellow taxicab was making its way towards me.