Who does he think he is --
that guy in the shabby wool suit,
who has such miraculous fingers,
not glowing with nicotine stain?
He looks like a smooth odd mannequin,
no rust of time mossing his countenance.
He's holding a stop watch, in fact.
Measures off every tick and tock
of her gliding through his silver hair
into chambers of his brain's regard.
She is a long flash of auburn fleece
hung on branches of his synapses.
Her sea of waves comes tide, comes venture.
He is interested. Every molecule
of her activity gathered up like quanta
dripping lore from elusive foreign eyes.
Such an imbalance! Such a narcissist
in a shabby suit of timeless sad threads.
She is suitably aloof. And that is how
the world moves -- lopsided for rhythm.
He stands there like a grand novel character
one-third in shadow, two-thirds in lost ocean.
Enjoying her amnesia.