(Melbourne)
We adopted each other
years ago as Sis and Bro,
co-admins of online poetry groups,
cohorts in politico-social outrage,
and co-conspirators in
(sometimes refraining from)
epater le bourgeoisie.
We met, of course,
under the clocks.
'I'll be wearing an avant-gardenia,'
he said. No, but he was wearing
a black T-shirt saying:
'The revolution will not
be televised.'
I'd texted him on the way:
'I'm wearing a tie-dyed caftan'
[it was the one hot day]
'with a carry-bag advertising
The New Internationalist.
Think I'm joking?'
He didn't. He was right.
(Well, we were both left.)
I'd wondered how it might be
meeting at last in person,
but there he was
looking just like his photos.
Nothing was more natural
than to hug.
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