In each one of those unbearable moments
when his gaze keeps slipping, just away
from yours by no more than a fraction,
to rest on some invisible point of the naked
wall behind you, you can’t stop yourself
from noticing it, that half-conscious gesture
of his hands as they nest there handsomely
in his lap; the idle thumbing at the silver
wedding band, the endless series of
unconscious three-quarter turns it keeps
taking, around that restless finger of his.
They probably don’t mean anything at all.
Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online publications, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. He is a member of The Brewery Poets in Kendal, England. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.