A little black-and-white thing

Walking in the city centre, rain
falling into my two-tone hair, looking
for something that just isn’t
there any more — or never was.

A boy in black trenchcoat and trilby
strolls, different, confident;
doesn’t look at me, with my melted hair.
I’m just a lump in the crowd, but I want
to tell him, ‘You’re beautiful. You’re so
beautiful.’ or
‘I had a hat like that, once.’

Walking in the city centre, rain
depressing my carefully-chosen clothes, looking
for someone who already moved
somewhere else — or never was.

The woman in the Arcane
Bookshop takes, in her careful
fingers, my website flyer, my
photocopied product sample —
poem, titles and link —
reads it.
(I’m sure it’s politically correct.)
She says only ‘OK, I’ll put that up for you’.
On the windowpane. My words.
Jostled by vivid gig and book ads.

It’s a little black-and-white thing.
All its colours are on the inside.