Leaning against a gray lorry, his arms embrace slender shoulders
and a fall of auburn brightness in the lamplit London street.
Chin atop her head, he beams at the world.
For one instant, I would, if I could, tear them apart.
Envy spasms like a dying heart.
But it passes.
And as I pass I smile back at him,
agreeing that love is indeed grand;
his grin grows a little wider.
Better luck to you, kids.
December 14, 1992