Sitting with wife in a pub
They sit across the pub, near the rain-streaked glass,
her hand around his, a kind of promise.
I lift my pint — foam gone thin —
I say something my wife can’t hear.
Outside, a taxi idles, bored of waiting.
Inside, the young talk too fast,
as if speech could outpace the years
already circling them unseen.
They’ll end up somewhere, out of breath,
mistaking heat for something more.
There’s worse than this — indifference,
and the years that follow.
Her laughter — their laughter — spills over
like beer from a tilted glass.
I look away,
and find my wife watching me.
