Photo of a Man in a Café

There you are, caught off guard,
leaning back in your chair,
a just-lit cigarette
stuck between two fingers,
flipping open your wallet
for the price of our meal.
Your hair looks dark, tied back.
(Loose, it had blonde lights.)

You're wearing jeans, one earring,
the copper medallion I gave you
and a T-shirt with a Gold Coast logo
you thought would please me
and bought specially: 'Look,
your country's famous swimming team,'
not knowing that to me it was just
some surf club, one of many.

At this point you still think
we might go somewhere afterwards
and make love. At this point
I still think I might let it happen.
Home now, eighteen months later,
I view your image onscreen.
My cursor traces your profile
as my fingers never did.

You were twice as tempting
as Lindt to a chocoholic.
But I had this other place
to return to, this other man.
You bought me wine
though you abstained.
We talked a very long time.
You drove away alone.

Well, it wouldn't have done.
I was never going to be
a gracious Southern lady
nor you an understated Aussie bloke.
And we kept having to explain
what we did and didn't mean,
cutting through tangles of different
strange accents, foreign words.

Now we're friends instead.
You learnt to use computers;
we meet online.
And there are changes.
You stopped smoking; I no longer drink.
Your latest photos show you
wearing dreadlocks and a beard,
and the medallion I gave you.


An old poem, resurrected to submit to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #140
Also submitted to dVerse Open Link Night #86