Meeting Poem by Don Pearson

Meeting

We are friends, I think,
Meeting every so often, or less.
We have both had, perhaps,
Fewer friends than lovers.
We follow a pattern:
We have dinner, go back
To your place or mine,
Chill out, talk energetically
And laugh as if
A world was ending.

And now I wonder
Whether we are friends
Or ever have been.
I find myself observing
The curve of your breasts,
Patches of thigh
Through the tears in your jeans.
I notice the sparkle
In your eyes
As you look into mine
And sip your wine,
Brushing a finger
Over the bowl of the glass,
Smiling at tales
Of our decades past.

It was easy for us
In those days,
Restricted by convention,
By wife and husband, children.
We are tested more nowadays.
Music, carefully chosen with
Apparent disregard to the lyrics,
One gentle kiss on the neck,
Lingering longer than necessary,
The lightest stroke
Of the inside of an elbow -
Any of these
And we might pass
Through the turnstile
Into the darkness beyond.

The evening passes and
We write our own ending.

17th June 2009