He Asked About the Quality—

He came out of the office where he was employed

in an unimportant and poorly paid position

(up to eight pounds a month, with tips);

when he finished his tedious work

that kept him stooped all afternoon,

he came out at seven, and sauntered slowly,

gazing idly in the street. Beautiful

and interesting, he carried himself

as if he'd reached his full sensual potential.

He turned twenty-nine a month ago.

He gazed idly in the street, and down the poor alleys

that led to his rooms.

Passing by a small shop

where they sold cheap

and inferior goods for laborers,

he saw a face inside, he saw a shape

that moved him to enter, and he acted as if

he wanted to see colored handkerchiefs.

He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs

and what they cost

in a choked voice

almost erased by desire.

And the answers came the same way,

absently, in a lowered voice,

with an implied consent.

They kept talking about the merchandise—but

their sole aim: to touch hands

on top of the handkerchiefs, to draw

their faces together, their lips, as if by accident;

a fleeting touch of their limbs.

Quickly and furtively so the shopkeeper

sitting in the back would not notice.