On Cooking Chilli Poem by Matthew Johnson

Every chilli meal I make alone
Is different to those we made together.
We would play chess, crack open the first ale
And sit outside to chat away the night.
We might write, of anything and nothing;
That musical film we were always starting;
Or plan that walk in the Dales we talked about;
Or watch Tim Burton, Shooting Stars,
And let Hannah persuade us to watch Campus.
And then the chilli would be done.
An evening of food and the best selection
Of ale from our standard hunt at Booths
Would begin. We'd lie awake 'till three at least.
The ale would pass our lips, with talk of art,
Literature, philosophy, accompanied
By music-making, and talk of the darker
Parts of life, kept between you and me.

As if we'd tell the other how much that meant:
To have someone you really call a friend.

Now distance is between us, though I know
That little will have changed when we next meet.
But there are things you can't share on the phone.
It's not so easy playing chess on your own.