By Zack Rearick
The fat and stupid squawk
of your leg against mine
in the diner, in the
first corner I could find.
You lean back as you talk
and offer me your wine
(my water being free)
and offer, as I balk,
your heart as well to me
and tell me that I’m kind.
The waiter’s twenty-three
and has a funny walk.
Your fingers are entwined
like ugly, plastic stalks.
You spill apologies
and dirty up the floor.
I tighten in a ball
like Catherine Deneuve
recoiling from the wall
as I watch you explore
the skin beneath my shawl,
the skin beneath my glove.
The waiter’s bringing more.
There isn’t light above.
Your hand begins to fall,
your hand and then your love.
I grin and count to four.
You cannot speak at all.
I point you to the door
and chuckle as I shove.
I sail out like a hawk
escaping from a crime.
The dusk is gold with glee.
I wash my body sore,
contented with my thrall
and my response thereof.
Clutching at Straws 