I’ve seen him
three times before
in the high-street.
Dark, longish hair
threaded with grey.
Of humbler origins,
his too polished shoes.
Sagging jacket pockets
from a youth of
standing on corners
waiting for trouble.
Handsome. Part gypsy
those grey-green eyes.
A family man now
made good, he buys
oranges, brightly
coloured yogurts
and Rioja at the store.
He smokes Marlboros
reads second hand
history books.
Every time I see him
he bestows upon me
his retired ladykiller smile,
like an ex-junkie
who can’t remember
he already kicked.
Standing in line
for espresso shots,
on a winter morning,
I return the smile;
there was a time
I’d have turned
his hour’s invitation
into a year of hell,
systematically turned
his entire life
to ashes.
Lucky, I don’t do
that shit anymore.
I love the way these two seem to recognize each other like grizzled love vets from separate platoons. It took me a moment too, to notice how well the picture at the top fit.