A girl lay impaled on her presumptions.

Her body staked a claim of two square meters of pavement

the territory being defined by asymetrically flung limbs

(with a margin for error and onlookers)

She almost resembled herself, but I couldn’t be sure.

Her face, not to mention her heart, were obscured

by meticulous rods of analysis.

She looked a little stunned.

Her eyes, flown skyward, followed a line of false logic that

pierced her cheek on its vertical passage.

There was little that could be done.

Her emotions had crept away to mourn.

Someone had picked her pockets of all impulse and sensuality.

All that remained was a trickle of humour that had congealed in the corner of her mouth.

I did what I could­‑

shoo’d the Monday morning morons,

substituted her disorderly legs for dignity.

With compassion and the tissue from my pocket

I removed the humble pie from her mouth and collected her thoughts.