on this wet stave, our uncoordinated
footsteps strum a pattern of blues notes,
syncopated with raindrops, tuned

to the drip, drip, drip of water down our open
collared, dressed-in-a-hurry outfits;

counterpointed by your persistent kisses, my
slippery, hand-grasping fingers, reaching for
that dry-skin warmth of recent memory

for that under-the-doona closeness, left just
minutes ago for this dash out into the real
horn-honking, bus door-slamming, policeman-

shouting, busker-singing, ice-cream-buying public;
where the curled cord that connected us
to the thrumming power surge of love

is invisible, too short, unviable, and threatens
with sharp sparks to short-circuit as we
stand in a soggy line for raspberry gelato

and the only way to save our song
from certain extinction is to run
red-lipped back through the rain

fumble with the door key, slide
laughing over puddled floors

and dive back into
our final coda

© Julie Thorndyke