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, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html
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