Meeting Peter at the Tate

First a visit to
the Giacometti exhibit.
Haven’t been in London for years
and my first stop is the Tate,
trying to make someone human
out of a series of
blunt and elongated others
with nothing more
than a gaze.
I’m to meet Peter here.
Haven’t seen him
since 2010.
But recognition begins
with canvases,
dripping brown contours,
smudges and shadows,
multitudes of tiny strokes.
The more I stare,
the nearer I come
to specificity,
though never quite reaching it.
Then someone taps me
on the shoulder.
Behind the beard,
the bushy hair,
it’s Peter.
Whispers turn to true conversation
in the café,
as old times become their own gallery,
each revisited in turn,
some early work,
a sketch or two,
a few demonstrations
of true talent
and, if we’re our memories
can be relied upon,
one or two masterpieces.
We catch up
in a way that says
we still have more
catching up to do.
Today, approximations.
Maybe, in time, realization.