We inherited each other,

through our partners.

Sympatico in our independent couplings,

we come and go through comfortable back doors.

We trudge spouseless fairways;

you in striking composure,

me in decomposing childhood,

one hitting a ball, the other a concept.

We are golfing mates, with intellects on hold,

waiting for God to appear

and to be shirt-fronted.

We are the corporate traders

of Machiavellian minutiae and managerial mayhem,

therapising our petit four with another crisp champagne.

You, the firm, lucid seeker;

me, the loose, loquacious dilettante,

but both guarding a world of secrets

never to be shared elsewhere.

I’m not sure I really know you

but you have such a familial face.