I am sure they missed my word of thanks,
Or misinterpreted it, which comes, at the end,
To the same thing. Both their faces were
Pictures framed in grey, and every memory
Had etched itself a line on the leather-smooth
Canvas. One looked out the window the whole
Way home and chatted about new shops
And rising prices. The other had been in the navy
And spoke of his next port of call
As he manoevred his way through the crowd,
And the people moved back into the gap
Of his wake as he got off the bus.
Their voices had been distant at times,
But out on the street again, they laughed:
“Me leave him behind? Couldn’t, these days.
Been together too long, see?” I had thanked them,
Although not a word had escaped their world
To mine, intentionally. I am sure they missed
The meaning of the gift, or misinterpreted it,
Which comes, at the end, to the same thing.