The first time,
nostalgia came over me;
like looking at a picture of myself
I had never seen.
I gazed, second person,
mute, hungry voyeur;
your suited and booted margins
pleasingly familiar.
Something sexy happened.
Your eyes spoke;
I could lip-read them.
Hush! this is the year of the tiger.
Let’s lunch forever.
Now, a visual condiment;
ferocious but pensive,
piquant, like ketchup
with an indefinite shelf life.
I love the aroma of old paper in second hand bookshops, the move of words on a page, gathering odd things like a jaybird, crisp blossoms, wooly socks, keeping organization with craftsmanship, the rush of film, and composing an infrequent culinary enjoyment for the individuals I adore.