Which¬†visit will be our final meeting?

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Sitting in your sunken sitting-room,

we smoked small cigars, at ease,

loud fond music, aural heirloom:

classical or jazz, both please;

 

air burnt-scented by Cuban cloak,

you cough, clear throat of croak.

 

Many years of lost connections,

kitchen-sink dramas once provoked,

paralysis cured, absent corrections:

time-short talk, not so choked;

 

we both ask questions more kindly,

soft words now bless benignly.

 

Shall we read some scripture

from shelved bible rarely read?

Happy snaps, poignant pictures,

and church shared wine and bread;

 

long silences now, daytime sleeping

– which visit will be our final meeting?

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