Bow-Tie and Tartan

You speak with your hands and wear a bow tie,

who does that?

It sits badly,

at a drastic angle -

knocked by a dancing limb.

Or jostled by shimmying shoulders in a plain blazer.

You lack even the pretence of cool,

and it's clear that calm is foreign to you

from the timbre of your voice alone.

Though the tartan trousers,

at least,

remove any doubt that might remain.

But it's most the pitch and hysteria of your laugh,

and the empty glasses that crowd around you.

Not yours but your crowds,

As you clutch a half-full, lukewarm beer like a talisman,

you entertain them with your talking hands.

I don't believe in the great thunderbolt,

or love at first sight,

but you have made me love strangers a little more.

And your strangeness from across the room has held my attention,

and my gaze, until you met it and smiled without shame.

You come across like a breeze,

and ask for my name.

As if it really is that simple.