You and I walked arm in arm through
Yawning streets-- warm evening light
Reflected off sale signs and dowsed us both.
Light like the heater I kept turning off and
You kept switching on. I pulled at your arm
Interlocked with mine.
You moved in that loose limbed way
Like unformed bones.
What is this thing the English
Have for tea? The teapot steeping, the thimble
Cups staining like teeth. From all this tea,
From all this coffee, from all these cigarettes,
There's no wonder why teeth here remind me
Of little gold pips.
By Chris Abraham
Copyright 1994 by Chris Abraham.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.