Alex Boyd Poems

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Inside air sweet and harder with smoke,
we circle plain tables, balance coffee
into a free spot. You say something
I partly catch, then slowly run thumb
and fingers down your cheeks (like I do
when thinking, as if I had a beard)
and I wonder if you felt that soft brush
of your own thoughts, but I'm sure
your mind was caught on something else.
The room is painted with a constant stream
of mixed words, each fading from the surface
like a sinking stone, dreams after
the alarm of morning. We step outside
and into a breeze, ice-cream truck happy,
splitting to cover us both, streaming past
and moving on - but before it flutters out
we soak it up, let it smooth us over.

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