Mirrors

I was walking back from the local shop
with my arms weighed down by butter and potatoes,
mushrooms and cream;
the bags tying a plastic tourniquet around
my wrists. I was thinking about nothing in particular;
the heat was bothering me a little.
Then I saw the graffiti:
I love you. Just like that,
written – spray-painted, rather – in white
round letters on the wall by a bus shelter.
Two centimetres off the ground.
Who had written it? What poet
wanted to let someone know this?
An elaborate proposal? – I could just see it, smell
his fear mingled with the early evening air as he did it,
bringing her, stumbling, hands
balanced on her cheekbones,
her lips shut with kisses, giggling
and nervous.
- Now you can open them!

I couldn't imagine it. It probably
wasn't that.
Maybe a student's drunken whim, maybe
a prank to make
old women like me
cry.