Table Two

Two travellers, one male and one fem, blur about matchbox tinderbox houses which twinkle in the dark evening. Hands, chilly and warm, intermingle in the passing of miles of dirty concerte from one full house to another, one brand of blood to another, all packed in tight with trappings, holding each other like needles on evergreens. Each stop brings them closer to home, farther from the beginning, where, nerves-shot, they were debating getting in that car at all.
And the road hums along, cars in chorus, singing carols of apprehension and relief, debate and decision, dogs and cats. The eyes of the now-warm-hearted adventurers become lidful as they tumble down avenues which often appear unkept and unwanted, these old streets familiar like a dining room full of relative faces, neon candles, boarded up entrees. The last few miles are the easiest for the two travellers: hands, song, and stomaches in line, the dark evening growing bare yet warm, sad yet joyful, wanting for a reunion and never wanting.

H

table

On a winter corner, coming dark of the afternoon, headlights on but lighting nothing but themselves, cars, bus sagging by, two men stood in a hollow out of the wind. One, a poet, his shoes looked too big, laces cinched like fingers hiding a coin. "Women," he said. The other, also a poet, lame, said, "It's because we need so much from them." Somewhere, a bird tumbled down over its tired wings and bounced on the ice, blood to run its migration in the spring, to calcify and then shine, a pearl in a coy winking oyster.

r