Basile Jean Barès

by kvennarad

Seen from inside, the open store front’s

a kind of trapezium, in it there are passing

legs and torsos but seldom faces, unless

someone bends, genuflects to check out

what’s boxed in the shadows beyond the

young man’s back, him in vest, sleeves;

outside it’s hot, sweaty; inside hot, dusty;

there’s a smell of fresh wood and the tang

of metal wire rubbed by his fingers – look,

there’s a callous on one tip – and I wonder

what I’d feel if I placed my hand on your

shoulder, how the muscles would move, if

your hair would scent bitter because you’re

male; and if I’d somehow hear what you do,

a little waltz running around in your mind.

.

Let’s trip a little mazurka like the flip of a silver

coin, like the first shout from the street at early

light, scratch the first bar of an allemande on

the back of an envelope, hum the melody of a

possible valse, think “And this belongs to me.”

.

,

__________

Basile Jean Barès©Marie Marshall

Angelique Jamail has kindly featured on of my poems in her blog today.

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