Going Down, by Tate Christie

Be honest —with yourself —at least,
you stalk him like he’s prey
he works on the fifteenth floor,
you’re far too scared to say,
‘Good morning, how’s it hanging, man?
Have you lunch plans, cos I’m free?’
He makes the mistake of smiling
Freshly showered, smelling great-
Shoves your decorum off a cliff:
pushes ‘Stop’ around floor eight
You’ve pinned him against cold steel
Before your brain kicks in
You stutter an apology,
But all he does is grin
He dips his head, kisses your nose,
Continues to your mouth
Then the intercom breaks the mood-
Demands you proceed south…