Collectors Poem by Emlyn Wentwhistle

Collectors



'A little grey suits you' she says.
'Gives you a most distinguished air'.
'It never used to' he says
noting the gaunt yellowed skin,
like speckled parchment,
between thumb and forefinger
as she reaches for a glass.

'Antique? ' he asks.

She proudly indicates a smart display
of Roman trinkets ranged along a sill.
Red, green vessels all delicately turned
but all 'as found',
roughened by millenia underground.

Two chairs of elegant proportion
and lightly tanned complexion,
symetrically arranged as if in conversation,
speak of social intercourse.

'Biedermeier' she says
following the direction of his gaze.

They clearly have so much in common.

'Your place or mine? she'd said
quite out of the blue,
discretely mind,
inaudibly,
almost.

No jest, no japes
'No contest' he thought
watching her now
arrange the generous folds of her curtains
(Shouldn't that be drapes?)

'Favourite word? ' she asks.
'Aquisition' he says.

Adopting a quasi-classical pose,
reclining in a copper bath,
she inadvertently rearranges the downy hairs
inside his nose
with her cool breath
and disconsolate laughter.

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