I bought you coffee -

always did on Sunday morning at the Clock Cafe.

We'd sit at the window people watching,

sometimes you'd mock me and say,

"Don't you have any mirrors at home",

or "Ooo don't look now, spot the gay".

My retort was just as bad,

"You bitter old queen -

they all think you're my dad!"

 

But that was another Sunday thirty years ago.

Today the repartee has worn a little thin,

resting on the counterpane,

the silent testimony to your years with him.

 

I'm in so few of those casual snaps,

fact is I took them all -

except the one you sneaked unposed,

where I was naked and stretched

across the rocks, Cretan boys were diving

from the docks and came out

blurred into the background.

 

An obvious eye for the boys

you'd always qualify it and say,

but you're not just one of them

you're up there among the men,

you're special to us. I wanted to ask

was that picture of me or them?

But I already knew the answer -

It was probably both! Such an appetite

for love. An infinite capacity

for mayhem.

 

I didn't quite see it like that back then.

You could say my position has evolved,

because now I believe everything

you said, and the doubt is resolved.

And I don't know if it's the medicine talking

because you ask if I loved you

equally, and I thought you deserved the truth

and when I said I loved him more -

You put it down to callow youth,

"but thanks for sticking around!"

 

He gripped my hand as if his

life depended on what was coming next

"you're not in the album much

and I know why?", and you know what

he's right. "We always let you take the pictures.

You were camera shy".