A centipede of commuters
scuttles a hundred feet underground.
We break free
from jostling briefcases
and arm-clamped free papers.

Only the briefest of glances
to the pearly kings
we overtake,
wafting their oysters
through mechanical gates.

Not at that Italian table
amongst valentine couples,
nor beneath Eros
guiding arrows for the tourists 
lost at Trafalgar.
But there, within that square,
I kneel to hear you say, “Yes.”

The clear ring escapes
surrounding ears
and Hollywood cheers from the gallery crowd
miss their cue for love.

Our silent kiss, and feet swept off
the breadcrumb trail paving,
scatters messenger pigeons far above.
And somewhere, in the heart of the city,
a policeman skips a beat.