I'm Not Your Man

The girl got on the train at Leeds;
It filled up rapidly.
And so, because she had no other choice
She sat down next to me.

As we bowled through Morley tunnel
I watched her in the darkened glass;
Fine features, well-toned body,
Intelligence and class.

Her hands were neat and manicured,
Her nails cut short and trim
But a gold band gleamed a warning
As the sunset struck its rim.

I took my Leonard Cohen
And read him ostentatiously
To display my literary leanings
And my sensitivity.

She wrote in a tiny notebook;
Confessions or diary?
Or perchance she was a poetess
And her rhyme would feature me?

Why is love so tortured?
Why do good things turn so bad?
Why do grace and beauty
Taunt a man and drive him mad?

She rose to leave at Huddersfield,
Her fingers steepled slim;
Leonard would have seized that hand
But, alas, I am not him.