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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.

Published inPeople

One Comment

  1. EP EP

    This is my favorite. Just wonderful.

    Good words, Hat.

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