She catches him up and tells him how much
they all miss that laconic delivery,
enthusing about the open mic
at the Abbey Café of a Thursday.

He remembers clambering up on stage
too early, too late, the high coming from
how loud the crowd was applauding,
or lighting turned down like a thumb.

That utterance of himself being heard,
a piano stuttering down terrace steps;
his mouth dried up and a sideways look
at the bar so reflective and wet.

She says they’ve started serving beer
and the venue is small and intimate;
the iambic rise and fall of her breasts
is blinding him to their pointlessness.