She breaks our moments of flirtation to huff
like a wolf discontent with its found food.
In reality, she was a stranger who served
her body, half-soul on my table where I
was quaffing down beer like a widowed.
We'd exchanged a few light touches, no more.
And even so, I kept myself respectful - or like
to believe myself respectful - of the hallowed
name of feminism. Awkwardness breaks
its bucket of ice & I am suddenly left
to brood on my glass and her stray one.
I do not say I'd poured her drinks from my
own jug, but kept the cab fare home. Such
are the rules of proferred companionship:
the clink of glass like ice, the covert tips
for sweetened sips, or the numbed heart after.
No comments:
Post a Comment