Howard Firkin
Your smile is a promise of sex.

Your eyes lock on their target
and you step out
shoulders twisting long diagonals
across your chest and belly
stark, trecento in their definition
dragging eyes across your body
down into the complex folds and grain
of denim groin and legs
your boot heel striking its
impatience on a hardwood floor
mid-stride
your left hand swinging past
gunslinger hips
a blur
the danger of the moment caught in you
four yous
dark shapes against the garish
advertising camo of block colours.

You smile with the promise of sex
and think: it’s just a photograph.
This isn’t art.