Breakfast with Thom Gunn

We pick a modest inn

since they're serving drinks.

We drink. I hear him tell

a story or two: he thinks

that this and that's a scum;

and afterward, there was the time

that Milosz called, c'mon.

One more gin with lime?

I need to say that once,

I saw him wearing calfskin,

resting on a wall

inside a bar. Rather,

strolling to the N,

I spout about his books;

he gives his change to men

who've lost their homes and looks:

how like him, I've been told.

Our day together is finished,

I embrace his exposure.

And afterward, the train is no more.