Last Saturday at the Kickstand café, we
workshopped some poems. I drank mulled cider.
You had tomato soup. We chatted over the din
of other customers and the gentler sound
of Tracy Chapman. We scrutinized each other's
words in the genial if noisy atmosphere. We
chatted a bit afterwards. We left in the darkness
of an early evening in winter. I walked you home
and you invited me in. We drank measures of Scotch
as we leafed through art books, Hockney, van Gogh.
We talked religion, a little. You spoke. I listened.
You brought out a transistor radio. You turned it on
and we listened to Says You and drank more Scotch.
We poked gentle fun at each other's native accents.
(You said "caht," and I heard "cart," but you meant "cot.")
I helped you move some boxes. We went out
to the back of the house and looked up at Orion's belt.
We shivered, a little, in the cold. We smiled.
We laughed. We smiled some more. We spent
four hours together, all told. Just after nine,
we said good night, and I walked the half-mile home.