You stand, strange in London’s harsh glare.
Small flowers drift over your soft shape.
Somehow perfect.

Wearing a bindi, for heaven’s sakes. An alien
To a pinstriped commuter world.
Floating.

Not Indian. You relate to an English pub.
And yet here you smile. Radiant in otherness.
Striking.

You seem awkward. Not quite here. Not quite there.
Bright eyes glimmer. Cotton dances around you
You seem to hide from my gaze,

Now you are one.
Individual. Yourself.
Alone.