a kiss on the nose

of a person you don't really know
is a difficult task.
as awkward as trying to strain self from home to work,
this idea being accomplished in small motions of palm to pocket.

who holds this pen, the ink issued out onto the files' flyleaf entries
the jarring unceasing ness of it broken only in the dialogue sketches shaped
by a man speaking quietly of old bills or a woman mourning missed opportunity.
where do faces rest once the office evening alarm is set
how does the reflection compare: the long bus ride home or opaque office glass.

could i witness the presence of eyes and mouths and the clasping of hands
and for years not once glimpse the source?
never would i see you if not across filing cabinets
and only in the lunch hour could i ever have a chance to watch
the way sunlight strokes your cheekbones and chin.

our reciprocal anger has now been recorded.
should i speak of not knowing you in five years
should i speak of not really knowing you now?

who knows that what the bureaucracy calls "flyleaf" is really defined as:
a blank leaf at the beginning or end of a book
and which co-worker could say that one day they saw me
writing mine and my beloved's initials in the fresh cement
just steps away from my almost home streetcar stop.

walking on saturday, i glanced a tree shedding chestnuts
upon that same cement
but all weekend i recalled the hurtful words
then sunday night i dreamt that
i kissed you lightly on the nose
and smiled back at you.

catherine lake
Toronto, Ontario