I’m a sucker for the broken and the beautiful. I
met you on a random Tuesday. You said hi or
something like that, but all I could see were your lips.

Lips that spoke in code; lips of imagined lust
lips begging and pleading for me to linger longer
lips pouting and preening, a warning sign for me to go.

Seeing you, standing there, in the corner of the room
reminded me of the sparrow I found in my garden once.
It’s little wing broken. Honour demanded I rescue it

from a potentially grim fate, one grey, one tabby,
one black and white. I found an old shoebox, scooped
the bird up, squawking and panting, it cowered in the

corner of the box all feathers, fear, and desperation.
I secured the lid on the box, poked a few breathing holes
in the side. The bird would be safe to heal its wounds.

Your lips demanded I do the (dis) honorable thing
with you despite the ring around your finger.

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