I write a poem for him.
He laughs and says, “I was hoping that words would appear at some stage tonight”.
“Hmm.” I murmur in response.
“The poem…to reply adequately, to do it justice, that last verse. All of it actually”.
I hug him and say, “Don’t read too much into anything, poetry is just a random selection of thoughts”.
“Ok.” He says diffidently, “I understand a lot of that poem, which is rare, for me and poetry. We have an agreement, it happens and I read it, sometimes, but we don’t expect too much of each other. But that poem is relevant to me and I was present when some of it was generated".
I smile at him. “Poetry is meant to touch people”
“Yes,” he says softly. “It worked.”
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