All of my future husbands are walking around the South Bank
One of them positions his French bulldog
exactly on the golden hour light.
When he turns his phone at an angle,
even from far away you can see
the crevices of his arms, the tattoos that have settled in
and lost their crisp line – you imagine the stories they carry
but part of the beauty is that none of them do. Another man
hurries past him on the way to the Queen Elizabeth Hall,
his suit and hairline still intact despite.
By the staircase leading to the food market,
Another man stops, takes off his jacket,
his girlfriend leaning on the rail, patiently waiting.
He then slings his arm around her, the heat they’re insulating,
shares a casual kiss so casual nobody turns to look.
