Satori in a Yaris
We drank until closing again last night, then,
unable to get a room,
discussed Kerouac and Plath
before deciding
to sleep in the car.
But we didn’t sleep. We couldn’t.
We talked and laughed;
one of us cried
and the other knew how not to.
Jesus Christ, it was fun. It was strange.
It was eight hours side by side, at last.
Yet we didn’t touch. Not once.
Not like that.
We didn’t touch.
She didn’t even let me buy her breakfast.
Complications
She has eyes that let everything in and everything out
and I could not resist.
It began with conversations behind the cupped left hand,
heavy with the burden of that thin gold band.
Balancing the books of
anniversary gifts and nursery fees against
hotel bills and secret suppers, late nights that must not impinge
on civilised Sunday mornings
when I kiss my kids on the face
with the same lips that only an hour before
were slurping on breasts that are not their mother’s.
I chastise myself, alone now,
without either of my old lovers.
Us, Separated
‘Come in for a cuppa?’ I ask,
delighted when
she says she will.
I let the tea stew
for longer than she likes,
knowing it will mean more time.
While she drinks it, I want to ask her
to remember, during all of this,
that I am loving her and –
she loved me too, once.
Afterwards, when she’s gone again, I’m glad
I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask,
because the awkward pity in her eyes
– that used to see me –
and in her words – that used to tell me –
would surely have been too much.
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