The wash of traffic, returning from the sea
seeps back before
the long sinking dusk setting evening free
to search for those who did not leave: the gory
drinking sunday crowd, the walkers in the park,
those who stay behind glass and pray it rains.
................
The cutlery, cast aside, reminds us
nearly parting
time. I pick at the scraps while you adjust
yourself. It is odd to watch and then see
you transform from the personal face
to the public. Suddenly, I must take care
not to smudge you, as I wash the grease
from the plates.
...............
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