Your eye-roll - uniquely American,
in Liverpool Street Station,
not that we invented impatience,
just maybe lent it conviction.
The startling newness of you.
I half expect shop tags from your clothes.
Your face taut, freckled, coppery.
Hair the color of a city lit street after rain.
I invent you from accessories
Teasim mug, a sundial;
Blackberry at quarter to nine;
Prada watch eyeing
my peeling soles and borrowed tie.
I breathe in the sway of you,
nameless, travel-stained dream of you,
your cinnamon chai
and Ralf Lauren Blue.
You dip and pull your roller-bag,
stow stray hairs behind your ear,
a dreamy salute to all in the station
who’ve briefly woven you in his or her future,
cowards, villains,
architects of silence
and unfolding distances.
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