Durrants

Our hotel room was too small

For our luggage and our arguments

So we left them in the hall

And went to bed, went straight to bed

When we wept in that cafe

Trembling hands and whispered palliates

All the people stared to say

Your transgression, our transgression

And we’re holding a love that’s passed

In a drawer under last year’s stale cigarettes

One that burned up the photograph

We lived in

Took me to a house of green

Asked me, do you know how much it means?

I tried hard to squint and see

But felt nothing, I felt nothing

In the morning on the street

She suggested we try one last thing

Maybe at some great museum

A connection, our connection

And we stared at the love that’s passed

Onto white walls of Sargent portraits

And remembered the photograph

We lived in