At the inn that had no
name, A’s parents
were telling tales.
Talking of A and me,
sisters of the same name
and lack of self-promotion,
attesting to our evident
non-evolution as they
waited to go to dinner.
But I was eating apples,
delicious, not Delicious,
one after another and
you and A were yakking
away and drawing silly
schematics on napkins.