Queensberry Street

Walking on Queensberry Street
one Saturday night
we find a single red rose:
longstemmed, cellophaned,
perfect. I pick it up
in my black-gloved hand.

If you’d been anyone
but you
I’d have said ‘For you sir’
with a flirty bow and a smile,
with a
performance.

We discuss how it might have got there
and take it, reluctantly, to give to Zoe
for her birthday.

I am blissfully can-kickin’ happy
just walking with you
through the streetlit night
Two stray poets with nothin’ but words
Walking with you
through the empty night
with my gloves on my hands.

What do you think?