Portrait of a poet

I remember the first time we met:

a chance encounter.

Two extranjeros together in a room. 

I have to say, you caught my eye.

It wasn’t just the interplay of colours in your scarf. 

There was a certain style,

accomplished with a coy off-guardedness,

and vulnerability, tending to liquescence. 

The air of a much-travelled poet. 

I tried to catch your gaze, but you were far away. 

Where were you?  Paris, maybe?  Or Bucharest? 

Anywhere, but in the room,

which had filled without my noticing. 

My feet were planted to the spot,

a metre or maybe two from where you mused,

detached, before your visitors. 

You were endowed with depth,

but also with the weariness

of one who has observed

the inner workings of his species.

Was Robert, in those intimate hours,  

burdened with the same Orphic hues? 

A Simultaneous mirror?  

Much is owed to Sonia, true,

but Robert gifted something of himself.

Something that draws whispering feet to linger

in this space.