It was dark, of course, even though
The night was one of the shortest.
Somehow, that became a theme:
Perhaps I wanted to squeeze every last
Drop of day from each 24 hours.

I did not, and do not, understand
Where we were: the bright lights of
A 358 cut an articulated dash
Through the scene, but all the map
Told me was that it was a long
Straight line from centre to edge,
Geographically implausible to my foreign eyes.

I did not, and do not, understand
What I ordered, or why I ordered it,
Or why the place was busy even in
The middle of the night.

We both fancied the waitress:
She was inadvertently a means
Of skipping around the latent chemistry,
A distraction from the way
Our hearts edged ever closer
To one another.

When we fondly recognised her
Somewhere else, everything was different
Even though nothing had changed.

Where could I take you that would
Be the same? All night table service
Is an American dream, not
A British reality, and anyway
I am too old for staying up so late.

Have enough years passed to allow
Room for forgiveness? Perhaps one day
I will be brave enough to
Find out; to apologise for all I could
Not admit to for so long; to be
A decent man by accepting finally
What a selfish boy I was.

01/19/2017

Posted on 02/04/2017
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince