The meal is lovely, yes,
I’m glad we came here.
The questions are arriving, not too heavily,
but drip-fed between mouthfuls.
Chew. Answer, a ladder of sentences.

Maybe I should be telling you
about the seasonal affective disorder,
or the fibromyalgia that attacks my back.
You’ll need to know this going forwards,
I'm sure.

You have already mentioned depression,
the gurgling storm in the brain.
I nod, offer empathy even though
I didn’t mean to.
The meal is lovely.

There’s a cherry birthmark blotch
on my right thigh you’ll see.
I don’t say this. It’s not appropriate.
We hide things
so we can make a game of it later.

Perhaps you play the flute,
collect comic books,
are an expert at knitting.
Weeks to trickle by treacle-like,
facts set to spring up as flowers.

Sip of drink to shut me up.
Our truths floating like shuttlecocks
across the table.
The meal? Yes, it’s lovely.
I am thinking of later, of tomorrow morning.