Yours
   in the bus, beginning
      to drive as I write this line.

Yours in the destination and the act.
   Yours, frequently
      and unrespondingly.

Yours in the fastened black cardigans
   (don’t ask why) of H&M,
      in the turned up polo shirt collars
         of Manhattan dummies, and in the faces
            of a hundred thousand million strangers.

Yours in the imagined disapproval of a twice-folded
   pizza, in the humourless punchlines of reactions. Yours
      in the noughts and crosses of black boards and unusual stresses.
         Yours in the angry unfulfilled I-Don’t-Knows of
            silences.

Yours in captured motions, in summer television tennis,
   in now-rejected practises – salami, too much cheese.
      Yours in the fall
         to the floor of an ice rink,
            wondering if you would.

Yours under skies that look much
   too much like milk, on roads that all
      look the same, in quotes. Yours everywhere:

yours in a small train station café
   playing Bill Withers
      where I write this line.