9.15.2012

Tread

She looks like the beat
of beauty's tight drum
sitting on the curb
near my corner pub
and I look
at her
through dogshit irises.

Her knack for bedside manor
must bleed into the realm
of awkward small talk
with exes.
We skate over topics
like landmines
each more fruitless
than the last.
"How's your mom?"
"Haven't spoken in a month."
"How's work?"
"Laid off."
But she takes it in stride
as she has all along
and I take it however I can get it.
It's a shame I wasn't so
palatable at the time
when it mattered.
Que sera and such.

Her partner in crime
sucks the last of her smoke
and heads back toward
the commotion indoors.
The hug is coming.
I feel it.
It does.
A mutual pecking of cheeks
is followed by a quick one
on the lips, mouths closed
of course
in one of the rare frames
that the Editor spares
in the cutting room
whether or not
it's deserved.
We're not here for long enough
to let the union or untying of knots
dictate what slips by.

"Be good."
"Take it easy."
And that's how those
three flights up
to my apartment felt
for the first time all day.

It's not so bad
this sleeping alone
as long as you know
they're still out there.

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