We’re in the kitchen with friends,
And you’re talking
– always talking.
I’m leaning against the door frame,
Listening.
Gavin is by the casement window,
Ellen, cooking chicken and dumplings over the gaslight stove:
It’s winter, 1995.
Any moment I know
The shrill chime of the telephone
Will bring all the idle chatter to a close,
But reliving it again
I hope for your sake it never rings
Because I realise now
How I would hate, more than anything in this small, wet world,
To see you
Lost for words.
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