The party & The passenger
by Patrick Chapman
[ poetry - october 04 ]
The party
Tomorrow, in the morning, late,
You will come down from his bedroom.
You will catch me snoring on the couch,
Stertorous with troubled breathing,
Shrouded in a rumpled coverlet.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes,
You will smile at me with real affection,
But I will not see it.
Soon, you will be percolating grounds
As though you lived here.
You and I and he will sit together at his table,
Passing the sugar, passing the milk.
Scrambled eggs and sausage meat.
But tonight, we are on our way out.
You hold the gate open for me.
You leave it, swinging, behind you.
The passenger
1.
You watch her as she skips across the patio.
You echo her attempts at Cockney cant.
You love the way she grimaces;
How she is lightning-quick with a retort;
How she lies face down by the pool,
Leaps up, jumps in, gets out again
Before a length, lies wet, the light
Investing in each droplet on her skin.
2.
I watch her concentration in reverse
And then, between your seats, I see the clutch:
Your fingers tremble on her thigh until
She grips them, lets them go and takes
A firmer handle on the wheel.
3.
At the airport, I get coffee while
You take a postcard out and write.
L'Amour reanimated by the kiss
Of Psyche, hallmarked with your own.
4.
An hour after take-off, you are still,
Embedding your impressions on a pad,
Laying down discoveries for future archaeologists,
Tracing her evaporated shade.
