They sit at the table
with their crumbs and unwashed cups -
a companionable ease between them.
He is reading the paper,
struggling sometimes to turn the pages
'Bloody broadsheet! '
She is watching him -
the shape of his head,
the unconscious grace of his hands.
Occasionally he interrupts
'God, the world's gone mad! '
She smiles, remembering
their passion of just an hour before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.