She’s an artist,
sensitive to touch
her art says something
she cannot handle
the national and international political
what the Tories did in the 80’s
(and are doing again) really gets you down.
your face conceals nothing, the beautiful
glances of rage against the system
I share them
because I’d hate to lose all this.
To change the subject of sham
governments you tell me you’re better
off without your ex, he didn’t give to you.
You should give up being a friend to him I say.
You tell yourself once
and then again, he doesn’t
want you back,
he’s no good for you.
I am here; a man with an interest
to see you again, if only by virtue
of circumstance, we inhibit
a shared space.
We sit for hours
talking not saying much looking out
across the tables to see couples
looking at other couples…
you shock me back
have I ever thought about suicide?
used to but
the act now seems dull and void
I tell her of my accommodation with failure;
“As long as my back holds up there
is something useful to be done”
besides, it’s face to face
honesty that I live for.
She tells me she’s knows how
we just have to get on
with things as they are you know
I’ve saw the child in her eye; it draws in me closer
yet somehow more alone
my hand wants to feel yours
and smile deeper inside her.
I wanted to say “up ‘n at ‘em”
but instead remark on the attraction of intelligence
its this or reach over and kiss you,
I tell you, it made us