The Gift Giver

 

      Fifteen minutes to find it. It can be done. She never distinguishes between the well thought out gift or the hastily chosen one. It will be the same, her face breaking open long enough for a runny smile to leak across its flatness. No philosophy. She is not a strong swimmer. Poetry implies certain affection in residence. Perhaps a travel volume will send her sailing. That she were my own Mary Kingsley, with presence of mind enough to rap upon the snouts of crocodiles snapping at her canoe. But she has never had that much steel or provoked gasps from lively retelling over a cocktail. No inscriptions and wrapped in this brown paper bag, the volume will sit untouched on the bedside stand until I come for it with whisky-warmed coffee, looking for passage beyond the fire escape. I will add a bookmark.