by Isolde ÓBrolcháin Carmody02 Apr 2019
Your pose already spoke of poetry
Propped easily by shoulder and by hip
Your dark hair edged in blue, bunched frizzily,
And languid hands caressing, tip to tip,
Releasing unexpected floral scent
As we dance the public transport shuffle
You thank me, and my over-friendly dog
Who promptly sticks his nose into your jeans;
“He smells my dog.” Your voice with kindness beams
Derailing me from snappish monologue;
“Or your gorgeous hand-cream.” (Soft rebuttal).
“Take it!” Soft-insisting, you present
Me with the bottle as you leave the train:
I long to catch you wafting by again.