And so another winter evening finds us
With breadsticks on the table by the water,
Preoccupied and staring at the menus
Considering which meal to choose for slaughter.
With effort I can come to some decision,
With equal thought you may just get there too,
Yet agony prolonged delays the moment
When you must talk to me and I to you.
The years have flown so swiftly and eventful,
The children have grown up and moved away,
Leaving us each other in seclusion,
Ill at ease with little left to say.
The strain is felt in hanging on together
When each of us would rather be elsewhere,
Engaged in socialising with some other,
With whom we could relax and laugh and care.
Small ripples spread across the surface tension,
Not near enough to cause the surface break,
“I think I’ll have the pasta,” you inform me,
And I reply: “I think I’ll have the steak.”