She was late, but that didn’t matter, it wasn’t planned.
Over the top of the boxes, under my chin, she gave me
a half smile, pushing her hair behind small delicate ears.
The curb caught my feet, the pavement my fall. I sucked
my cut lip, saw my thumb displaced off at a right-angle.
In soft focus, she leant over, mopping my bloodied head
with a scented cloth, before disappearing into the crowd.
My femme fatale and Florence Nightingale. So beautiful.
He was there again, maybe late, probably lying in wait.
Desperate awkwardness clinging to a tower of swaying
cardboard. His being there made me do that stupid thing
with my hair. I regained composure. But over his hopeless
lolling tongue, he fell at my feet, awoke and then fainted;
coming round when I cleaned his face with a baby wipe.
