I glimpsed her once, down the street.
She was buying flowers and smiling,
while I fumbled with my shoe laces
and decided her beauty beguiling.
Her hair was auburn and combed neat
but not too neat, not too much,
and it flowed over her soft skin
like a clear distant stream and such.
And she didn’t seem surprised with me,
or when I greeted with “hello there,”
but her gaze didn’t land on my stupid face
and she didn’t seem much to care.
I rooted around with my stupid mouth, and
asked her if she could recommend a flower,
and then she smiled the smile of a woman
now aware she was facing a terrible coward.
She pointed to the roses and looked at me,
it was a moment, eye to eye, for just us,
before she said to me, “With these pretty ones,
my husband makes such an awful fuss.”