backofyou

Today I catch the back of her – the leaving,

away of her, hips rolling inside a heavy sea

of skirt, a deeper green than the bridge

or the river, or the other side of the hill,

pushing her trolley load of fabric

towards the basilica where tourists

might bus in for the day (it’s fine enough)

and maybe a family of four

will potter about the gift shop

weighing euros and forints

against the American dollar,

the father desiring elsewhere,

the children tossing up between

a sequined Easter egg and the novelty

of the packeted Church Snack handmade

from Roman Catholic altar bread

before heading back out

to where she’s set up

between the first holy statues

and the parking lot

and maybe she’ll catch the eye

of the mother with her mother’s eye

sealing a last minute transaction

(how many times out of ten does it happen?).

If they hang around long enough

they might get to see the back of her – hips rolling

inside that heavy sea of skirt, head covered in sunset,

shirt sleeves white as white can get, the whole dogged,

squared off frame of her, shoes kicking up the dust

of the day, all rules of engagement negotiable.

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