Nothing much of a story

Like a premonition
the two clocks in the room
stopped in unison,
stuck in an awkward spreading
at 9 and 2.

perplexed in the vacuity
of the abrupt end
An anthropologist, his subject
A poet, her lover,
and their nothing much of a story.

Through the Venetian blinds
time still streamed in
like it  had when it all began
over a shoddy copy of Klimt's water snakes

when like an effortless poem that came back
in an inchoate afternoon dream,
love  had come and
locked its arms like the lesbian lovers
around their recalcitrant minds
weighing it down with pleasant inertia
belonging in a pair of two.

In between there were

insignificant days

nights in a hurry

lunches missed

and dinners had on time

there were thoughts

autumns,

desires,

disagreements over high necked pink sweaters,

post marxism,

and 

a loud laugh in a silent room of strangers.

Time still sweeps in,
like stale coffee and yesterdays's winter

in the darkness of the night outside
over abandoned signposts in unfinished journeys

wearing down memories that will
have no retelling in some future gathering,

Still on a night like this I will say it
for you to hear,
this nothing much of a story,
for the sake of nothing
but love that was here
and knew it had to leave.