when Carrie met Harry


when Carrie met Harry
 
Renoir touched up a drab spot
in his painting, Au Moulin de la Galette,
with a twirling couple –
a man in striped trousers
and a woman in pink
 
the man, was an artist, Solares to his friends
the woman, a ‘model’, was everyone’s friend
 
a hundred years later, reborn as Carrie and Harry,
they had no memory of wild polka Sundays
yet their eyes linked a little too long
whenever they met in a bar or a party
 
Harry intrigued Carrie – occasionally
Harry loved Carrie intensely – but privately
 
at a party throbbing with chiselled energy,
Harry toyed with a double whiskey,
wishing he was home with a dvd
 
Carrie asked, ‘this seat taken?’
Harry, casually, ‘yours if you want it’
 
as they chatted away
through one glass, then another
Carrie felt an inking of a vague ‘something’
from ‘somewhere’ before –
from some time before
there was a before…
 
and Harry was a part of it
 
‘would you dance, Harry?’
 
Harry was no dancer,
yet if they danced
he could hold her hand,
and feast on fond imaginings –
they danced
 
the wine, the dancing, loosed his tongue,
Harry wanted to say, ‘I love you,’
but his nerves betrayed him,
‘I love… your black velvet dress’
 
the party dwindled into silence,
Carrie reached towards Harry,
shaping her hands as a holy grail
 
Harry mimed ‘taking out’ his heart
and handed it to her, reverently
Carrie cupped the token, tenderly
as though it were a wounded bird
 
‘Harry adores me?’
‘Carrie likes me?’
 
their world had changed without a word
 
‘come for tea, honey? soon?’
‘I’ll check my diary’
 
a goodnight kiss
two lonely walkers-home
two souls waiting for a call

© coolhermit 2020
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critique and comments welcome.
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Bhi

CH, your work always comes across as something to be performed, and this one flows easily, like a conversation between friends.
B

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