They were young lovers, and seated at the table in the window;
where in Paris they'd be watching
the passers-by watching them...
but no.
He was silent, unyielding; but uncomfortable;
she with her head buried in his shoulder,
and pale as a damsel
in some stress.
I thought at first, they've had a long night
and she tired first...
but no.
They looked at me as I took the table across from them
as if I were a threat to their lovers' bubble
of unhappiness
not quite fully demonstrated...
Their order came.
He'd ordered a huge steak platter each;
and with his male priorities,
tucked in with vigour
eating with his elbows
which made it difficult for her
to maintain her body code
so leant her head behind his shoulder blade
uncomfortably
and left her meal untouched;
he undaunted;
one sensed a sympathy held sternly
by a sense of moral support;
it was not unbecoming
to another male...
but she was getting nowhere
and his was a large and satisfying steak.
Finally, she pushed her plate away.
I must say, she played the lovers' code
just right; not overdone,
not underdone, just medium please.
Minutes later
he went off to the Gents.
And then she gave the game away.
Sat up, mind clear, looked out the window
and very, very nearly
did all those feminine things
done at such a time.
O lady, lady, in thy orisons
be all thy sins remembered.
But they left together;
as if with a common purpose.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-young/
