Impassioned as a pop machine, he lets
The bright precision of his smile enjoy
Its normal interval, then shakes my hand.
I smile, but not enough, it seems; he sets
His suitcase down, and tries another ploy:
My shoulders captured, I take his - we stand
All but embraced, and meet each others' eyes.
And then we may laugh like no one else is there,
And talk about the times and friends we share
And breathe the casual air old friendship buys.
But I say this, or he says that, and smiles alive
With laughs become our practiced smiles we'd give
To anyone who'd let us shuck and jive
Back into lives we never thought we'd live.
If you've any comments about this poem, Marcus Bales would be pleased to hear from you.