They’d just be friends, they said, so she made quiche
while he in the living room read aloud
from John Crowe Ransom. Passion, on a leash
in the back porch, howling, was not allowed

inside, lest, run amok, it soil the rug
or damage the furniture, or make a mess.
A meal, a talk, and, as he left, a hug,
broken off quickly. Both marked down one less

quietly dull, companionable night
that they would ever have to spend together.
She dressing for bed, turning off the light,
he walking homeward in uncertain weather.