Maybe Two
Composed in XIII drafts overall; first draft from nearly 11 years ago while the rest were over the past four months.
“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”
—R. Hass, Meditations at Lagunitas
I think she caught my eye by seeming sad—
But that’s not quite the word
(There might not be a word) for what
Her turn of eye implied, just what it was
That her too-tight control of every facial muscle
Did not, quite, obscure.
Sunday-evening coffee-shop.
The both of us alone and silent
In a room half-full of background
Noises, strangers, conversations,
And that quiet dread at one more weekend’s waning:
She sat, back to me—though at the nearest table—
Fully-focused on display and typing.
When the hail came in sudden clamour
It was the nearest thing I’ve ever seen
To what it will be like, come world’s end:
Instantly alert and interrupted,
Everybody turned about and looked
Into some stranger’s eyes for confirmation—
As if each of us, without exception,
Feared a breach of sanity
And, nakedly, went begging for consensus.
We two, too, peered through brief-breached defenses—
Snagged our lines of sight one with the other—
Smiled at embarrassment denatured:
A second only, maybe two. The room
Returned to anonymity and we
Were no exceptions:
Mending up our wall in desperation,
Focusing-ferocious on our screens,
Deceiving one another—and our selves—
We let the moment wither.
She might have turned to look at me
A time, or maybe two, before the close
Of day and shop and opportunity—
I can’t be certain. We sat six feet off,
One from the other, headphones in
(Mine silent since the storm),
Screens ascroll with emptiness and words,
Body-language showing only hope
(Or what we hoped would look like hope)
Of being left alone by strangers,
Such as one another.
Edits on 6/10/2025 to correct minor typos
Further edit on 11/11/2025 to correct another
Yet another edit on 11/11/2025 to correct what I desperately hope is the last
Thank you for reading The Brass Bull; I’d keep writing (and maybe even publishing) even without any readers at all, but a creation like a poem doesn’t fully become itself until it is read by at least one person other than its so-called creator. You are under no obligation to interact with this at all, of course, but if you think you know someone who might get something from it, why not