THE LAST ANECDOTE

We talked of nothing, as one does,
And paying out the slack to pass
A moment in the street that says
Not talk, but being friends, to grace

A weather’s commonplace, and you,
Still idling with your pipe, the road,
Half absently to pause and broach
The wrong thing right from when you rowed.

A perfect cast, each word in place,
The best wine kept until the last,
And the sense reeling out to play
And fasten the wise barb at last.

You smiled too, pleased, but as we turned
You touched me as a woman might.
To sense and miss what nothing heals,
And you half knowing it was night.

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