She’s an Artist

She’s an artist,

sensitive to touch

her art says something

she cannot handle

the national and international political

situation anymore

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

both laugh.

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