We inherited each other,
through our partners.
Sympatico in our independent couplings,
we come and go through comfortable back doors.
We trudge spouseless fairways;
you in striking composure,
me in decomposing childhood,
one hitting a ball, the other a concept.
We are golfing mates, with intellects on hold,
waiting for God to appear
and to be shirt-fronted.
We are the corporate traders
of Machiavellian minutiae and managerial mayhem,
therapising our petit four with another crisp champagne.
You, the firm, lucid seeker;
me, the loose, loquacious dilettante,
but both guarding a world of secrets
never to be shared elsewhere.
I’m not sure I really know you
but you have such a familial face.