2nd of June, 2008

You've an antiquated novella clenched in your hands,
Its cracked spine refuses to reveal the title;
Perhaps it wearies of the judgement it receives.

I imagine maybe Homer or Kafka,
It has the proud look of a battered classic -
Well thumbed, well read, well loved.

Your patchwork coat acts the protective quilt:
Its silver zipper glares a warning to the passersby,
Who bypass you, with their binocular eyes.

I covertly watch your eyes and lips,
Synchronised in a movement with the verse,
And I fantasise about the captured work.

Back turned you exhale - a breath of smoke.
But when you turn, I'm caught by surprise:
I see between your fingers a cigarette burns;
They deliver it to your lips,

Which nondescriptly inhale the nicotine.

The cloud was not, as I thought,
A product of winter means,
Introduced to the warmth your dimpled cheeks release.

By Zoo