Bumbling Poetry No. 8

Execution

He huddled around the glass, feeling the weight of it,

Full in his hand, hers held the same kind, in the same

Way. Stealing a shared experience, that cold dew,

He wrote her initials in it, with his index finger.

She bore hers with a delicious clunk and slop, in front

Of the man with the attention of those assembled,

So present to his story, they miss her other hand.

Her other hand, which he sees, on the man’s back,

Steadying, as she leans in, her thumb missing his shirt,

Touching his skin. The man looks up grateful, taking her

Delicate, chilled fingers to his lips, in jest, but not in jest.

He knows, He can tell, because as she straightens up,

Her hand turns, so that her knuckles graze his vertebra.

A sight he tries to erase, kneading his eyes, gorged,

Sick, on her trick or treat looks. He returns to his pint,

His couple of mates, tries flipping the coasters,

Then tears them, corner by corner, to fluff.

At the bar they coincide, like chance, but timed

By him not her, drunk enough to tap her shoulder,

Bare, and when she turns the surprise is feigned, the

Smile resigned, Oh, Hi. Oh, like Oh it’s you, like Oh

What a coincidence, like Oh, we haven’t both been

Coming here every Wednesday night for the last two

Years. Oh, Like that. How are you? Yeah. Like, Yeah, I am.

Yeah, I continue to be, Yeah, sorry about that fact.

Mhm. Yes. What’s with you and that guy? She smiles

Then, not cruel, but simple, no subtext, like she’s happy.

And with one idle hand, she points with finger and thumb

At the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes. Pow.