and cornflower cups on a silver tray
tea cooling
your mouth curled on the brim
across a small table, eyes
as hard to read, as out of reach
as books in library stacks, open
only to the initiated, to the man in the trench coat
you met on the road in the rain
his smile set on high beam. You want to remember
how the city insisted on light
lamps
in every window. Neon
burning the night through and your music
spilling its Bombay Sapphire
into the perfect hollow
between your breasts
your legs
and for the first time
the last time
the smell of him, the taste of him, the sound of his voice
even the last glimpse of him turning
even the blood on your lip
and god never seems to do anything and
you’re so tired of walking down roads in the rain
in the dark
his smile still comes back to you