In the warmth of a cafe,
on a corner table
a powered wheel-chair
out of everyone's way so as not to cause trouble,
between the clink of china
and the hub-bub of conversations,
a sanctuary built for two.
He does not look at the clock
nor does he look at the door
his world is the distance
between the plate and her lips,
a slow practiced hand
of control and patience
the 'for better or for worse' line
set out before us in a special cup with a plastic straw - the 'in sickness or in health' line
measured out in crumbs of cake
on the plate he holds
the vows they spoke
all those years ago - then just words
words spoken in a room of flowers and joy,
now it's his hand that holds the weight of the reality - the grit of the many years.
The muscle required for the staying power,
when it would have been easier to let go
their love no longer a spark,
more the metal grate that stays hot
long after the flames have died.
It is the quiet architecture,
buttressed by the way he wipes her chin,
by the way she looks at him - not with the fire of youth
more a profound,
reliable light - he the lighthouse on a stormy headland
as the outside world rushes to be the newest,
to be the fastest,
the loudest,
it is not to be found here...
in here is the 'for better or for worse' line
in the warmth of this cafe,
the 'in sickness and in health' line
on this corner table
a powered wheel-chair...
out of everyone's way so as not to cause trouble,
between the clink of china
and the hub-bub of conversations
the oldest truth we have in
that - we are at our most beautiful
when we are supporting each other
support against the gravity the world exerts
pulling us all down
seeing something so intimate,
so perfect
can really make you reflect,
on your very own existence.
