poem 2, Isabel

Far from peace,

I stand

with demons shrieking in my ears.

I wait

for the sound of her footsteps on the pavement.

I look

for reassurance in her cool, languid gaze.

I turn

as she passes and follow with my eyes.

I hesitate,

suspended in the wake of her determined step, her scent drifting from me, and

I breathe,

as if that alone will be enough. Then

I walk,

retracing her footsteps, keeping my distance, and

I hold

my breath as she turns to look across the street.

I slow

as she pauses, waiting to cross, and as the light turns

I lose

her in a sea of pedestrians.

I join

the throng and find her again on the other side.

I see

the outline of her figure as she leans waiting for the train.

I pause

watching her expression for recognition,

then I pass,

in the guise of the uninterested, inconspicuous, invisible.

I am not a stalker.

I am a spy.