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O, I should hate myself, I know A leering wolf, a peeping Tom. A common corner-character, I wait On crowded curbs for one to come To rape my greedy eyes upon, A form or face to carry back

As meagre mental image for my solitary snack, Companion in my chilly cubicle.

Uninterruptedly they pass,

Shuffling, striding, pushing, idling, Ugly, self-contained, alert or brash;

Alone, in couples or in boisterous groupsIt's all the same to me who only ask

To stare.

Take that pair

Just stepping off a bus.

She, a beauty-parlor product, chic, well-made,

From blond coiffure and manicure

To tilted toe and nylon leg.

This I notice in a glance,

As one marks a straying dog When craning at a plane.

Her companion is a man

In late twenties, lithe and agile, Dressed in casual shirt and slacks; Soft brown hair slung loosely back From chiseled features, fine, intense, Glowing with intelligence and humor. This and more I see or sense

In the walk from bus to corner.

Luck is with me! Stop-light red,

They wait-and the unhoped-for happens. Glancing swiftly back, blue, anguished

Eyes sweep me from toe to head,

Then bore into my own,

Lingering on a lifetime.

Yellow light, then green-and they are gone.

Shattered I sink against a window ledge, Crushed by the secret shared across a crowd: The well-made blond, a front, a wishAnd he another ship-wrecked male Beating about his barren isle,

A gull on shorn wing.

I stagger home with this for fire and light, To warm my chilly cubicle, another night.

one

Pierre Foreau

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