December 1, 2021

At the Next Table

How beautiful their fingers when they sign,
lit by the steady candle! Waiters bring
rolls in a basket and uncork the wine;
the young man sips; then she; he nods. They sing
with their four hands. Now he inscribes the air
with urgencies her palms, tossed by the storm,
reply to. Why even try to look elsewhere!
This icy night, no other place seems warm
as the island of light they share, alone:
they do not sense us here with them at all,
eavesdropping on their silence from our own.
Homebound through sleet, hands clasped—afraid to fall!—
you and I will repeat, without a word,
the eloquent exchange we more than heard.

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