Harry Man

In my fingers I pressed on her mittens
like finding the corners
of a duvet through the covers.

The fine hair of ‘Goodbye’
wouldn’t lift from my throat
and I walked the gullet of the bus to Heathrow,

felt its Richter shudder
and stepped off the coach.
And in the road,

in my flightlessness, I waved,
waved and waved,
her face and one hand

an ever-diminishing crescent
— and was jolted
an empty shopping bag grasping at my shins.