The girl I would have married
had we met
is on the other side of the street,
a walking blur
I only notice for a second.
And her hair is a shade of blonde
or maybe brown I can’t recall,
nor anything about the jacket
she’d been wearing nor the boots,
only that for some silly unknown reason
we would have married had we met,
maybe at the bookshop
where I would have bumped her arm,
said sorry for my clumsiness,
which caused her to drop her classics
and a dictionary too;
or it may have been at a party,
hosted by a mutual
friend,
finding that we shared
a favourite song,
or that we’re social
democrats,
or that neither of us
can stand
the sight of blood;
then again, it may have been something
random,
her seated in the row
just ahead,
in a theatre
with a paltry slope,
her failure to remove the hat
that blocked my view,
my gathering the brazen courage
to tap her shoulder,
whisper into her ear
that I’m unable to see a thing.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image