Criss cross, the letters pass, the envelopes
each carrying an unrequited kiss.
The girl in the convertible unhooks
her jeans and idles at a four-way light
expecting lusty greens. His soda pop
is growing warm. He contemplates the time
it takes to eat a peach. The coffee shop
is rich croissants and hard-backed chairs and air
that somersaults as steam before it dares
meet lips. Years pass. She pastures her
convertible and paints the study green.
He takes his tea at noon. A bonnet blows
across the road: cross criss, the near miss –
one hundred sonnets for a sideways kiss.
(first published in Rattapallax)