She doesn't know
if he like her or not;
he doesn't give
the impression

that he does,
but she can't be sure,
not liked as such,
but liked as a woman,

liked for her beauty,
her ******, slim body.
When she goes to work
and he's there,

she becomes
all self conscious,
as if he were
looking at her,

taking in how
she has dressed,
how she walks,
carries herself,

how she speaks.
She puts on
her uniform
in the female

locker room;
stands there
gazing at herself
in the mirror

above the sink.
Pulls her lips tight,
purses them.
Her eyes look tired;

little sleep;
thinking of him;
thinking how much
he might like her.

She goes out
along the corridor
and he's there at the end
talking to another,

she freezes,
stands still,
looks back and forward,
then moves on

passing him
and the other,
sensing his eyes following,
his mind turning her over,

maybe sensing things
about her;
then she looks back
and he's gone.

She panics,
wonders if she ought
to have spoken,
ought to have made

eye contact,
maybe looked
into his eyes
and seen all

the fabric
of a dream.