So then. There was a he, who met a she, and they
got on quite well, and the narrator of the poem
was nowhere to be found, so kindly he or she had slipped
into the shadows, refraining from intruding with personal asides
and observations.
Now: just the facts. He met she, and they
went to lunch. They had sandwiches and coffee.
They walked in the park and went home.
There. Wasn’t that better than wanton description
of how the sunlight glinted on the silverware on the café table,
and how he looked at her when she turned to admire
a painting on the wall, and how
their steps on the sidewalk steadily slowed,
and how no one could tell what they said
as they walked, but there were crystalline consonants
when he tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and she could scarcely
look at him, the ground was so interesting, but when
she finally looked up, with glistening eyes,
she received him with all tenderness and quiet joy?
Yes, far better to simply say that, after their walk, they each
went home, and she checked the mail, and he made a phone call.
Facts
