Runcible Spoon

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Dilettante

 

No easy passage. The earth hard and frozen.

What do we do when we’re not making supper?

Our lives are so very different.

 

You are moral, perhaps the most moral being

I know. I have made nothing

possible, only a life of alcohol and longing,

 

ways to hide when the frost starts to sing.

I have ignored all the calls to prayer,

my only communion, that with my comrades --

 

a lifetime ago. Between dilettantism, misadventure

and trips to the pub, I have spent my waking

hours brooding over one luckless woman

 

after another, until confining my search to you.

Now our differences are posed, poised,

predetermined to rent us apart.

 

What do we do, Helen when we do not do?