Between his work tools
he spares a thought,
it is enough
for eye and eye to meet
word and word
to stand side by side
It is the rhythm
of question and answer
but the real thing
is him simmering
down your breath
as you take him home
on a long memory
and google up his name
helpless,
sick, almost obsessed
in the cold winter morning
you know where he lives
his age
even his email address
what next?
close your eyes and
visualize
every breath has met
every thought
every gut
you know this is love
and you can do nothing
about it.
Defeatist.
