quarter till half past eight

 

Quarter till:
Kiss my girls goodbye
and shuffle off my seat
among the ferry regulars
where a paper thin beauty
attracts my morning gaze
hair pulled back like a dancer’s
sipping a tall latte so that a trace
of foam is left upon her lips
for me to contemplate between
the nods and smiles we exchange
but nothing more
except in my head where we make love
her narrow frame stretched over me
like a canvas

Half past eight:
In the queue maneuvering to steal a hit
of her scent before being swept up
by the surge over the gangway
onto the arteries connecting us
to different destinations
On taking the long way to work,
daydreams of the afternoon
counting with each step the hours
until my return to her embrace,
feeling with my eyes the curvature of hips,
the softness of skin,
my sole satisfaction until
half past five