The Conversation

The man in the middle has need to talk
of things. Personal. Intimate.

He draws up his chair. Leans into the gap.

The man to his left with the white beard listens
patiently intent, knuckles pressed against his face

some defence against this

unsolicited knowledge.
Their eyes lock in mutual understanding.

Nothing to be said.

A younger man in a light suit, arm slung across the back of his chair,
has his father’s profile but a dark beard.

Air of sympathetic detachment

nonchalant perhaps as only youth can be
watching the generations come and go.

The two right, sit in silent contemplation by the wall;

red beard, grey beard, faces
beyond expression. Such things are hard to speak of.

The man in the middle has need to talk.

We all come cap in hand to this
unifying fact of life that separates us.