What's in a name?
he said,
lounging in a corner
guitar on one hand
smoking a Cuban cigar.
What's in a name?
she mused,
a glass of wine moves
an almost Allan Ginsbergish moment.
Across the room
a silent conversation began,
the heavy smoke
of cheap cigars, wine and
jazz-filled evenings
where intellect met humour.
He sang a John Denver song
and she,she was a ballerina.
He wrote poems
and she too tossed pebbles,
in the air- castles.
That nameless thing
a longing-bitter sweet
in all helplessness.
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