I watched a couple dine last night, instead
of paying strict attention to my host.
I didn’t see the garden as I fed
my eyes with her and him. They shared pot roast
and dense souffle. Each drank a different wine.
Their hands at first were joined in love or prayer.
Their eyes were locked and neither gave a sign
of noting any other diners there.

And yet the woman seemed a dyke or nun:
unstyled, unadorned, that shorn and dim.
She looked mid-50s. He could be her son,
with unlined face and woolly hair. At him
she spoke; he caught each cadence of her lip.
I couldn’t guess at their relationship.