Almost a Conversation

Every evening a clean slate 
A table cloth white as a canvas
At opposite ends we sit
Face to face 
With the sea in our backs 
And an ocean between us 
Hand in hand 
But never heart to heart. 

Sometimes he’ll open just enough 
Like a clam
For hope to stream in
A taste of love, never a meal
Every night after dinner 
I go to sleep hungry 
for connection 
like peasants for bread

Oh the weather… 
A glimpse at the phone
Oh the fresh Dorado 
A glance at the menu. 
Looks directed at things, 
Never at me.
Will his gaze ever stay and linger to ask,
How are you, really?
O how I hunger for a question mark.