The man softly demurs, inaudibly protests,

half-turns his gentle scruffy face,

but she keeps on, cleft eager pressed to cleft,

legs spread, her moving limbs intent upon his limbs,

Her living body undeterred,

swift plastered onto his

a second thick and curvy skin, it seems

a brand-new graft —

the line standers, Canadian, do not notice

Do not, cannot, will not look or see

Their phones of course become engrossing,

their convos louder, more and more intense

As I come nearer, I quick step

sideways, downward off the crowded curb

down into curving, smooth-paved street

to pass all by with proper distancing

Last moment's glimpsing shakes,

stops, amazes me, though

not quite sure why —

Her pink-masked face . . . turns, revolves

to reposition over grey-masked bent-back his,

and now she holds him, hard,

with two strong ungloved hands —

then she begins

Voracious kissing, lip to lip

hot and heavy, pressing

Panting open-mouthed,

through both their fabric masks

which, stalwart, stretch

extend along with moving changing shapes,

mould hollows, mimic mobile moistened lips

(tongues too, maybe, who knows?)

Grey mask and pink both remain

in perfect, personal, protective place

as he, at last, cooperates, responds

(as I pass by)