words like coloured glass
by Karen Baumgart (A formatting issue presented itself in the former email. It's now been fixed. I apologize to Karen.We're all about preserving the integrity of all these beautiful stories and poems)
they hold hands / across a tiny, scuffed table / at a laneway cafe
far too trendy for either of them / he is smitten / hanging on
to her every word; she might be speaking / about barriers to support,
or intergenerational trauma / ever hopeful / that policy reform
will carve up wicked problems / into smaller segments. or perhaps, she is
untangling the strands / of a long and boring story / about sonnet structure
or marathon fuelling / or why dresses without pockets / are a metaphor
for the patriarchy. it matters not, because he / remains / enchanted.
of course / that’s not how it looks / to the younger people / waiting
for designer coffees / served with a side of ennui. to them, the couple
on a breakfast date / radiates a mild incongruence / set awkwardly
against the curated style / and insouciance / of the other café-goers,
who mostly seem withdrawn / or desperate / or heartbreakingly lonely.
the woman looks / at the queue of young adults / who could be
a study in how to survive / the vagaries of a world / in which leaders
never make courageous decisions / and, over time / everything gradually
becomes more fucked up / in a slow corrosion of hope and possibility.
they could be her kids / or his / and her chest aches / remembering
how it felt, once / to be utterly lost. and now, sitting at this rickety table,
he is holding up / her words / to catch the light / a delicate transformation
from coloured-glass beads / to precious stones / over a single conversation.