Framed in Grey

I am sure they missed my word of thanks,
Or mis­in­ter­preted it, which comes, at the end,
To the same thing. Both their faces were
Pic­tures framed in grey, and every memory
Had etched itself a line on the leather-smooth
Canvas. One looked out the window the whole
Way home and chat­ted about new shops
And rising prices. The other had been in the navy
And spoke of his next port of call
As he mano­evred his way through the crowd,
And the people moved back into the gap
Of his wake as he got off the bus.
Their voices had been dis­tant at times,
But out on the street again, they laughed:
“Me leave him behind? Could­n’t, these days.
Been together too long, see?” I had thanked them,
Although not a word had escaped their world
To mine, inten­tion­ally. I am sure they missed
The mean­ing of the gift, or mis­in­ter­preted it,
Which comes, at the end, to the same thing.