Look who's back on the doorstep:
that old enigma
that familiar slouch
in scapula, in cardigan,
in burned-out eye-grin
sheepish -- yet
un-apologetic
neck on neck a brief moment
shoulder under clavicle in greeting
through the door, into present
conversation ...
back to table, past ...
I slip elegantly back, the
habits of
those ideas,
compelling as they are
as you are, in first moments
... as anything is, in time; until time.
and sure, the first: "You on painkillers?"
in foot's direction, a small nod
and I explain, "it's
too much effort
either for you, or for your liver
I don't have time" (or patience, and
I'd have even less time if I did --
him being the catalyst many
wasted evenings, afternoons, days)
"I've spelt my encoding
it lacked warmth
I slept
that was it
but if you want them, they're
yours." Which is
more or less
what I said
in the kitchen
last October
without words
Then it stunk for ages.
my pragmatism suggests
opening drawer, follow through
but I just
close the door, and
go to bed
without goodnight.
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