They always sit close and talk about boats,
but never the same craft: He submarines,
she cutters. He constantly clears his throat
and stutters. She lisps and whispers but means
no harm nor secrecy; its her shyness,
really. He likes her for it, his eyeglow
reveals. He pours her gin, praises dryness.
She sips it slow as a sundial’s shadow;
bows to his taste. He invites her to dance.
She says there’s no music. Still he rises,
holds her hand. “C-come on. T-take a chance,”
he grins. On the tile floor, she surprises
him with her windlike grace, her pirouette.
They sway in their silence as the sun sets.
Roger Armbrust
May 22, 2016
