I sometimes imagine us,
Years down the road, sitting
On the patio of a London bistro
Much more sophisticated than we are.
We'll waste the afternoon drinking tea
As impolitely as we can.
We'll chat too loudly about absolutely nothing,
But with such authority the woman one table over—
The one with the ugly scarf,
Because it's always the one with the ugly scarf—
Will mistake you for someone famous.
We'll spend the next hour reminiscing
Youthful conquests, like Cleopatra might,
Or Anne Boleyn.
Then we'll make-believe
Like nothing's wrong with us.
We'll call it a day—
Find a good pub and drink a bottle of gin,
After watching an English bird glide by
In a sundress, and we remember that
We came here to forget.
We used to call it "hen-hunting,"
This want for a wife,
Back when we had a sporting chance.