Porcelain Man

He always set porcelain
outside of the shop
to pull in the women,
pricing it low
a few pence for a plate,
it was the temptation
they let themselves not resist,
he said.

Now—watching you—
up on that stool,
how you lift down a plate,
stroke
the blue lozenges
pressed on the rim,
polish the garlands,
dust off the egg-white centre,

I'm shooting my arm out
over the years,
I reach for the plate,
touch him again—
his slung hips
in his faded jeans,
his brown curls,
how he always loved
women—