Another Friday Night
Riding the conflicting waves of alienated love, and
the loving of alienation, the screens flicked by,
suited men saying something important too
low to hear, too familiar to be trusted.
It was blank, window open wide to catch the night air,
bring some voice bleats along for the ride, room friends
and I sitting silent with our paper pads and tea cups,
looking out and thinking how the street lamp hit the leaves
might have been the most perfect for your face's framing,
but I was stuck with the cloud roll of Centra milk
in store-brand tea, nothing more than the same
old set of switching lights for company's comfort.
Something amazing might have been meant, some travel
or grand work to be made in its name, but
judged and measured in half-day's retrospect, it could
have only been so in mirrored illiteracy.
No, this was the meeting minutes from another round of
EU beef tariff talks, the idle chatter of stiff
men by watercoolers to stave off another day's
inevitable betrayal; only this, upon a night.