Low-hanging fruit

She pours the wine for one of them to taste.

They watch the bottle in her hand; the wrist

to which the hand’s attached;

her bare, bangled forearm.

 

The one who isn’t tasting tries a joke.

It does no harm. The sense of decades

hanging in the air between them

grows no more overwhelming.

 

She smiles and fills their glasses,

then turns to go. For both of them,

the pain of parting is intense.

But neither follows with his eyes.

 

They sip their wine. They wonder if

it might be just a little past its best.

Around them the room that she inhabits

explodes with sweetness and longing.