A romantic crisis breaks out like sweat
outside this steamed-up, greasy spoon pane
Im not concentrating on my chips and fried egg,
not seeing all the things in the street,
Im looking straight through the passers by
as if they were daytime phantoms of lifes
shadow dance round my sedentary thoughts.
Im focused entirely on the face of the boy,
his pleading eyes trying to penetrate
the shaded emotions through his girlfriends sunglasses,
tears slowly beading the rims of the lenses
whats he trying to tell her as she trembles?
Whats he struggling to express as he fingers
her tissue-clenched hands mouths arent moving
whatever language they use its not the tongues.
Is he trying to let her down slowly while she
appeals to his conscience with troubling muteness?
Or is she turning her feelings from him
while he pleads silently with arresting eyes
for a second chance with her, which thus stirs a conflict
in her tangled feelings? Has he been disloyal?
Or is there an excuse in my following pun:
theres something more in this long pregnant pause?
As their bus pulls up, they slow-motion to it
and alight like lost love, and I know Ill not solve
the clues to their crisis, the time Ive invested,
the thoughts Ive commissioned to be interested,
my minds curiosity stalled unrequited.
If you've any comment on his poem, Alan Morrison would be pleased to hear from you.