Moth on lampshade, lit

Brown eyes rationing glances
like sugar during World War I.
You surely
are too sweet to stir into
my steaming cup of tea, yet
here you are, waiting and
whistling for the same bus.
I will follow you on and sit
somewhere you won’t notice me,
admiring the beautiful absurdity
of youth—
in a cross legged caress, warming
old lace beside a gurgling radiator.
Your hair hangs upon the night—
like a sail blown toward harbor.
I swear, if I could, I would ride
to the end of the line
and follow you off,
but this is my stop.

written on 02/25/2011 by: Matt Kane