Ode to a Stranger in Dublin

stranger, i like the way you walk 
as though invisible cracks
grow wherever your
feet take you.

you remind me of
someone.
someone who’s got 
a replica of your eyes.

he’s got a name of four letters.
and even less when he speaks.

he’s the kind of boy 
who’d tell you about the sun
the same day he walks
home in the pouring rain.

he’s the kind of boy
who still buys carnations
for his grandmother’s grave
thirteen years after her
death.

he writes poetry. he
writes poetry.
he writes.

with a glint in his eyes
and a tilt to the mouth.
as subtle as mount everest’s peak.

but i’m sorry, dear stranger. 
i’ve forgotten this was
meant to be about you.
not him.

the train door opens.