Satis House

Every time you step over the thin line
and commit an accidental endearment,
I hand you a balancing beam
of carefully chosen plays on words:
comic plays
tragic plays.
You bite your tongue, and
fling the expletive of a pat on my back.

Every time my mouth is on the verge
of crossing that same line
of friendship into something new,
you say something old,
something trite,
something about a former lover,
something that just won't do.
I swallow my words, and
ignore my gag reflex.

No one will chastise us
for our wimpish follies, our impish jollies.
It will be many years before we realise:
Walls in empty houses eavesdrop
only on a wary weary past.