Why can’t we talk about
what I want to talk about,
while we stand for hours at the bar?
Could we at least sit down?
You like your time-honoured position
to be precise, the left-hand side,
two stools in.
You have been leaning there for years now,
every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday
from 9pm until closing time,
and are always the last to leave.
To stay or to go,
is all I think about.
As you order yet another pint,
and I drink red or white wine.
I dream of running with you,
hand in hand, along endless beaches,
on an island, at the edge of the world.