I see the graceful swing
of his smooth locs first,
stretching like fingers
down his muscled back;
easy sway of hips
strutting down the road,
working his orange high-viz
like it was amber-encrusted;
dustbin smell trailing behind
like gooey-eyed fangirls
begging for just one selfie,
a treasured autograph.
reggae tune resting
in his trimmed top-lip;
stinking to high heaven,
but feeling so damn sweet.
