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.