He has the pose just right:
Body bent like a sickle over the device,
left wrist drooping over left knee,
flat cap pushed slightly back and up,
the work done with one thumb.
Perhaps he’s not so old after all.
I wonder who he’s texting?
I reckon on a loved-long wife
bounty-bosomed in floral frock,
looking out on an apple tree in blossom,
smiling at his sauciness.
Later, I find myself behind him
as we are walking to the terminus.
He is dapper but the Dunn & Co stuff
doesn’t seem to suit somehow:
someone’s idea of an Englishman.
I think perhaps he’s a spy.
So to whom was he texting?
I see a severe young woman
hair pulled tight to her skull
somewhere dark and anonymous
receiving the message:
hi ctrl. av fallen 4 apple trE gal. gdby.