Poetry by Penelope Layland
NAKED ON THE STREET SIDE
How was it she had never noticed the manoeuvre by which
he switched and re-switched so it was always he, not she,
at risk of the arc of water, oil and grit played upward
from the passing tyre, to drench his trouser leg, again?
The sleight of hand as he handed her, handled her,
steered her by her elbow, like a surgeon manipulating
a remote machine, a flensing knife or similarly subtle
instrument of kind correction.
And her nylon...