by Ernest Armah
Incredible blues, crippling truths
Were all spelt in his sight
He folded his hands into a bench upon which his chin sat
Attentive, ever-ready to be swept away by this fine lady’s tale
His heart was wide awake
Prepared to consummated by the jolt of words
Yet to be said, yet to be heard.
He looks at her like a stranger
Though their lips have met before
Perhaps familiarity not only breed contempt
For if a man seen by many as a gentleman
And a woman seen by many as a lady
Can be so insane in the sight of each other
To even haul unbearable longings….hush.
Would he ever allow her to tell the tale
Or would continue constructing sentences ahead like a road in his mind
For her speech to ride on
Could he be man enough to look into her eyes?
And tell her how tired he is of being an audience
How much he desires to be a character again in the tale?
A wave of nostalgia envelopes him.