We hold hands
across the table,
laughing at
something, gazing at each other
as we do, with
infinite fondness.
A waitress chugs
up, breathing heavily.
“Aren't you
sweet!” she exclaims, and smiles brightly.
Meaning, perhaps,
we are inappropriate,
adoring each other
while white-haired:
we should be
distant, grumpy, bored.
Some people like to
see it. They're not the ones
who comment: beneath the voices
of those who do,
there runs a trickle – a gleam
on the basement
floor – of hate.
6 comments:
Oh! Yes. A tad of sweeteness with an edge.
Those are the ones who only have hatred in their hearts. Anyone with even a little, genuine love, swells with joy around joyful couples who have lasted.
We see ourselves in others, reflected, for good and ill.
She's probably shocked to see people who aren't ignoring each other while they're texting away on their phone. Every time Champ and I are in a restaurant, I look around the room and at least 2/3 of the people might as well be there alone, for all the attention they're paying to their partner.
So many lonely, wounded souls out there. I think I understand their bitterness...And yet, the world so needs to witness love, to know it's possible--even when it hurts their eyes. Lovely, thoughtful poem, Dale, on so many levels.
Oh, this is wonderful, dear Dale.
'a trickle - a gleam on the basement floor'
that's good, very chilling.
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