“It’s lovely to have you back” she said
But the tone was pitched too high
He, sitting opposite, crumbled a roll
Made like a crescent with black seeds on it,
Lit a cigarette and tried to smile;
A gesture devastating in its hopelessness,
A gallant effort, gallantly designed
To reassure her, an abortive, brave attempt
To cut at least a temporary clearing
In the surrounding jungle. She smiled back
Seeing him, for an instant, suddenly
Clearly and vividly, as he once had been
Before the cruel, separating years
Had altered everything. She turned away
And fumbled in her bag to hide her tears.
Outside the open window, light summer rain
Had left a sheen on the Soho street
Reflecting stars and moon and Neon lights
At the feet of strange characters
Shuffling back and forth, pausing at corners
To whisper in alien tongues and then retire
Back into the shadows.
Inside the restaurant the customers sat
Encased in impersonal, synthetic cosiness
There were small red lamps on all the tables
And rather untidy vases of anemones,
Whenever the service door swung open
There was a smell of garlic and frying fat
And the noise of banging crockery in the kitchen.

When the Maitre d'Hôtel brought the menu
The atmosphere eased a little
Because there was something to say.
He was sallow and swarthy, the Maitre d'Hôtel
With sadness in his chocolate coloured eyes,
Suddenly she longed to catch at his coat tails and cry
(In Italian of course) "Cheer-up—cheer up.
You'll be going home some day
Home to your own place, your own unhygienic village
With the olive groves rolling up to the sky
And the Campanile and the Piazza
Where the people you really know pass by"
But he took their order and went away
And at their table the silence lay
And the evening stretched before them
Bleak, desolate and grey
With so much so much so much to think
And so little, so little to say.