Colleen's Nose
Colleen Trahair!
I'd know that nose anywhere! -
a finer version
of her father's Roman one.
But Colleen's been dead
oh, many years
and the rest of this face
I'm covertly studying
at the next cafe table
is not like Colleen,
merely a young woman
I won't get to speak to,
not being in the habit
of accosting strangers,
however appealing,
with 'Haven't we met
before? don't we know
each other? I'm Max -
you are…?'
proffering a hand
to be shaken or more
likely scorned.
*
First memories
are of a girl running
after my sister,
across the school yard -
quick despite your leg
in iron, polio child.
After the iron went,
you scarcely limped,
grew tall and straight
and - that fine nose,
a nose to be lived up to.
Suddenly, Colleen,
you're adult, lodger
at my mother's place.
I'm two suburbs away,
in a student share-house,
you're a city secretary.
We're almost friends...
*
romping one day on
a sofa; my hand comes to rest
on your cardigan's left breast.
Paused, we smile surprised
into each other's eyes,
stilled - no, not your game.
It was my nose got tweaked.
Soon you married,
news of you came from time
to time from my mother.
The life you wanted -
husband, house,
proud parenthood -
nobly lived, I suppose,
because of your fine nose;
your dying, faced, achieved.
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