Young shoot

Whenever I go out to the yard
at work
his eyes trail a question
catching my attention.
Then he takes my crates,
stacks them for me.
"What's your...?"
He holds my arm,
peers at my badge.
My name is a strange taste in his mouth
which he seems to like.

Now I can't sleep.

Morning.
Mum's looking out of the window
waiting for the rain to stop
so she can do some pruning.
I say
"He's always smiling at me"
Mum says
"Italians always smile at women.
It's what Itallians do.
It doesn't mean anything."

Next time I see him he says
"What's your name?"

The day after, he was gone
to work in a factory in Fernley.

In Summer
the buddleia will be a riot of flowers
covered with butterflies