Touched

* Note to the reader.

Touched

A glass of wine, Rhine, you said.

Bright eyes flitting here and there but,

finding an oasis in mine.

They stopped and looked more deeply, then

you touched me and waited to be touched.

The clamor wrapped us like a blanket.

I smiled. (Sometimes noise can be a friend.)

Linen, silver and Henry brought dinner.

We talked of Ardrey, Leaky and Eisley,

acquiesced our boundaries and turned

our separate spaces into one we shared, 

for a moment.

You wanted to walk and drink in the cool 

November night. We shared my coat.

Arm in arm like some caped apparition

we laughed along the street, clinging to the moment

and looking for a place to embrace.

Dance? I asked, and then like an island in the stream,

we embraced in the middle of madness.

Morning found me alone, fondling a tiny, golden ear ring.

I stared into it's glow and recalled the fire from embers.

©Herb Ratliff, March 16, 1978, All Rights Reserved

* Note to the readers:
Although there is a school who believe poetry stands on it's own legs or not at all, I want to say a few words about this poem's origin. I wrote it several years ago after a friend challenged me to write a poem for The New Yorker. I never submitted it so I could be certain it would be accepted. I have seen many that are no better and a lot more that are not as good. HBR