This is a poem about love, spontaneity and playfulness. Somehow our current spontaneity is actually rooted in the past, springing from seeds we planted then.
The drama above the table
At Mrs Minsky’s
Had been played out before
And was all smoked salmon
And Cream Cheese
There was a Cabernet Sauvignon
And a vast number of crumbs
There was music
And much chat
About the state of the railway
And the ever cheapening quality
Of bespoke tailoring.
But below the table
A new drama was about to begin:
Henry Reuben, 76
15 stone and climbing
His wife Betty on one side
Staring over the roll mop herring
At Leah Goldberg
And her rake thin husband Eddie
It began for no reason
And no reason is a good reason.
Leah’s long left leg
Soft but varicose like a fork of lightning
Was rubbing gently against what she thought
Was a hard table leg
But it was no table leg
It was Henry’s leg
Hard from years of measuring inside calves
It had never lost its strength
And it responded, that leg,
For this was going to be a new phase
In the lives of the Goldberg’s and the Reubens
The legs pressed together
And Henry and Leah felt stirrings they hadn’t felt
Since they had kissed
Back in 42
At the Tailors’ Ball.
