Wearing the Poppy

Wearing the Poppy

The beautiful man read his paper quietly as well
we joined a club about manners
a Masonic Lodge without the handshake
the man on his left folded every page
wrinkled and shook it , a terrier with a rat
irritated by every letter and line
His battle with it invaded our space like static
I noted a poppy in Hectors lapel
and wished I'd found a pin for mine
As he read
I studied the planes of his face
quiet intelligence, the cheekbones clear
honed by a physical life
chiselled perhaps by foxholes ,shelling
dusty walls peppered with shot
car bombs aimed at anyone
I wished I was a painter
I'd paint myself a hostess
offer tennis and a lovely lunch
A wander around my gardens
tea and a chat about his wife in Scotland
how she copes
how none of us know
what he has seen
and haven't the courage to imagine
We got out at the same stop
he disappeared
to a car or a little country train
Had I seen him on the news?
extolling the virtues
of the Ghurkas
recently returned