Is it you I pass in a cafe in El Fouad street, raising a cup to your lips? An act of practised charm assuming beauty, posed at a chipped table, a ghost wearing whatever memory has dragged from its wardrobe. We are too long apart now, for anything to matter, yet, your eyes looked as they always did when my back was turned, spiteful - talons settling on my shoulder.
More of my poetry
can be read on http://www.odyssey.com,