A night out
They have made the effort all the same.
Spruced up in fresh, pressed clothes
in the beige of the Corrib Lounge
they share a desperate silence
pretending to listen to their own minds.
Once, words spilled from them like wheat from a sack,
golden as grain in a good year
or they stretched out in a different silence
that lay lazily between sighs,
little enough needing to be said.
Now, they stare ahead and wait for words
like landed fish out of oxygen
but nothing leaps from these tongues tonight.
Yet, in this silence, in this nothing to say,
is there not tenderness, everything said?