(a Lack Of) Conversation. Poem by Peter Vealey

You excused yourself in a few words
The awful sins of the world,
By taking life
One day at a time,
Smirked a gentle smile
Of defence.
I looked po-faced no doubt,
And did not agree in the
Silent diplomacy of Englishness.
"Politics is too much an old chestnut"
And a bad sore. (We placated each other.)
Religion and sex,
I've heard it said,
Is our next conversation.
But it will never be,
Because you will never
Instigate it (or me.)
Looked up an old, old friend.
Inevitably worried
If it was wrong
To do so.
Searching for the blur
Of common ground.
The years had made his voice
Seem less innocent,
Almost solid, respectable.
But I looked for the glint of
Unchained laughter.
The old cheeky effervescence
A rebel gone or rebel never?
How straight my contemporaries seem
These mortar building days.