I have a dream about you
in which you are sitting on a bench, your bench,
the one you have always sat on,
at some distance from the sea off Scotland
but close enough to smell and hear it.
Next to you on the bench are your things:
your book, a pair of binoculars,
a bacon sandwich because it is almost lunch,
your smokes and lighter,
your purse containing Sudafed and Kleenex, just in case,
and the Guardian folded in four to the cryptic crossword;
your sweater hung neatly over the back,
your umbrella leaned against the seat
with the point in the ground.
I approach, stand near the bench,
and the North Sea music in your head breaks off for a minute
as you look up.
In that minute you put your purse and the book
in the little space on your other side,
the sandwich, halved, in your lap
(for sharing shortly),
the binoculars around your neck,
the smokes and lighter into your pocket,
the sweater around your shoulders,
the newspaper under your other arm,
and the umbrella behind your heels on the ground
to clear a space for me.
You pat the bench beside you,
your rings making tinny taps on the wood,
and I sit.
With my eyes I thank you for making room,
and we talk and talk
with the sea-in-the-distance melody
mixing into our every word.
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