Together, they wrote a book.
Its title was Solitude, or
Every Man his own Hermit.

They wrote alternate chapters
in a small room with one chair and a desk
hardly bigger than A4.

Bip wrote on Saturdays, Mondays
and Wednesdays, Bop on the other days.
On Sundays, neither wrote.

On Sundays, they went together
to search for the stuff of fiction.
They travelled, gambled, dug gardens,

dated deep women, whose talk
they would agonise over on weekdays
at that desk, working out meanings.

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