He hunches a little,
his elbows sit on the table,
holds the spoon
with his right hand,
eats soup in silence.

Several comings
and goings
of the spoon and lips,
with energy and zest,
until the bowl is empty.

Being with him
at this pub is a treat,
a moment so sacred,
the whispers of others
fade away. I wish I could place

my lips on his,
embrace him tightly in my arms,
cradle his head
against my breast,
I am half in love with him.