Poem: Meeting

 

 

                       On the bridge, he sips her breath,

                       seals her back, is of her shape

 

                       what she is not. I am already that

                       which they abhor – my unintentioned

 

                       place in their sun, intrusive. If

                       those waters could keep their gaze,

 

                       I’d slip into shadow, retrace my

                       own false steps, turn up elsewhere –

 

                       though when I first began, this path

                       was mine. They notice me – and

 

                       part. Half a step beyond, I am

                       tempted by their love to try again.  

 

                                                                         © Diane Beaty