Someone’s socks are unrolled, one by one.
Ahead of me, a stranger stands exposed
to the camera’s stripping eye. A traveller
lifts her arms as though to dance, her partner
keeps the rhythm with her hands, tap-tapping
softest underarms, pat-patting downwards,
waist to knee. The secrets of a wash-bag spill.
A wrist watch ticks in a plastic tray.
I re-thread my belt, adjust my clothes,
beside a man I’ve never met, who does
the same. Complicit in this brief coincidence,
our shoes reclaimed, we lift our bags and walk away.
Sharon Flynn, The Bangor Literary Journal, Issue 13
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