Good Bones

Eyeballing the train: gazes of strangers
criss-cross and lock in middle distance.
He gets in at 28th, sits across from me.
I avoid his eyes, although his hands
are fair game and what hands.

I fall in love and want to cry for
the hands poke out of his velour
sleeves like birds, the color of milk.
They lounge on a woolen knee, at home,
languid, unposed.

The long fingers make you think:
good bones and the veins aren't blue but
bas-relief, straight, even as man-made rivers
and he wear rings, three silver rings
on his (oh...) right hand.

(I see him playing a piano -- Bach --
Later he'll play Joplin
and we'll go a little crazy)

My stop, I stand a throw a glance:
his face? Simian. Artistic.
Nowhere as good as his hands
so on the way out I pick them up
and take them with me.