The wet washing you pegged out on the balcony
was ad hoc scenery for conversations that took us
from future prospects to family snaps to how you
might never have been. I leant on the railing.
Light slanting on the blocksí facades
promised some kind of return, though none
of us had a clue when that might be.
Words served as poor deferrals.
Outside the terminalís crowded concourse,
we perched on tilted seating,
where the history and the politics
seemed for once to have no meaning.
I was someone else then for a while,
not entirely here nor there.
Taxis came and went. An aircraft revved
its turbines. At the check-in desk,
it occurred to me that I didnít know
how either of you were going to make it home.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tom Phillips
would be pleased to hear from you.