Maybe it was Her

I was approached by a man wearing black
leather chaps, a rainbowed sweater,
week-old beard and rings in his face.
He told me that I was daft for not speaking
to the girl on the subway.
I thought that such advice from an unsightly,
paaahh, British mess was surely something
I could leave in the next trash recepticle.
Later I remembered how her pumpkin, corduroy
jacket rubbed against mine blue, the style
she wore her hair, and the silhouette of her
smooth face from the side.
I remembered how our bodies collided during the
application of both the brake and the gas and
my wonder as to whether it was her intent.
I remembered wanting to hold her after I
uncertainly caught her stealing a glance at
my face. I needed to hold her.
We both read our distractions, but,
I for one, did not retain anything but the
brilliant colors adorning her chest.