Boots

I intersect her path
On our way to work.

She’s on the train before I board
We leave together

Take the Metro
She’s still riding as I leave.

She has the longer route.
I am but a partial arc in her routine.

She holds my attention when she’s near
But the porchlight knows nothing of the moth.

I could call her Hair,
Hers is long and brown and fair.

I could call her Face,
Hers is rounded, sculpted grace.

But in my mind,
I call her Boots.

Which usually she’ll wear
In weather cold, or warm, or fair.

Boots!  They grab my attention.
Boots!  She listens to music.
Boots!  I think that she’s married.
Boots!  She doesn’t know me.
Boots!  And she never will.

As I intersect her path
She glances up at me.

She glances down again.
I have my hat.

Perhaps the porchlight
(faint flap flutter)
notes the moth after all.

As I daydream out the window, 
she calls me Hat. 

“Good morning, Hat.”
“Good morning, Boots.”

And so begins the day.