by Russell Rowland

I watch your left hand waiting to replace
a cartridge in the printer, once your right
retrieves it from the drawer: unanimous
poise of four fingers, expectant angle
of a wrist. Around you, I’m never bored.

The order in which you drop your clothes
en route to the shower, strands of hair
trespassing on the other side of the part
you hastily parted—these assume for me
greater significance than the economy.

How you cross one foot over the other,
standing backlit in the windowed sunset
to tell me of your afternoon—I suppose
two candidates are debating somewhere,
but it’s you I’m really interested to hear.

Don’t misunderstand my concentration
upon a body part, perhaps a private one.
I never take the part but for the entirety,
and that entirety is—pars pro toto—you.
In every piece, the finished puzzle waits.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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