Behind the pouring pitcher of Sangria,
A woman,
Thirty-four or five
Lets out a heavy exhale of laughter, wishing she'd been the one
to turn the phrase.
And for a moment,
The Degree,
The Business trips,
The mornings after after-hours on bike baths with
Attorneys,
High-end Salesmen,
Soft-ended detectives
Disappears and she feels the unshakeable woman lurking,
Enamel chipped and discolored,
Her voice now more than vaguely her
Own.
The man's at home,
He's not much for Tapas or Monet,
("That's her thing!")
Sopping up the olive oil with bread,
His mint gum and grin hidden in the playbill.
He's a good sport...and earner, asking
Little but a warm spot on the rug
A Scratch on the belly and
A faint hint of the girl he knew only briefly,
Her voice still new,
Coaching him around the furniture of her
Darkened apartment.
One of the others drops the line
And she sinks in.
NPR,
The Book Club,
Re-Runs,
Cleverly played, leaves the other pining for the moment returned,
And now, falling upon the singular couple
hands held,
Something in them?
(her really...beauty, beauty, beauty)
And they ride the lull with an unspoken
Optimism, and the pitcher still full.
A woman,
Thirty-four or five
Lets out a heavy exhale of laughter, wishing she'd been the one
to turn the phrase.
And for a moment,
The Degree,
The Business trips,
The mornings after after-hours on bike baths with
Attorneys,
High-end Salesmen,
Soft-ended detectives
Disappears and she feels the unshakeable woman lurking,
Enamel chipped and discolored,
Her voice now more than vaguely her
Own.
The man's at home,
He's not much for Tapas or Monet,
("That's her thing!")
Sopping up the olive oil with bread,
His mint gum and grin hidden in the playbill.
He's a good sport...and earner, asking
Little but a warm spot on the rug
A Scratch on the belly and
A faint hint of the girl he knew only briefly,
Her voice still new,
Coaching him around the furniture of her
Darkened apartment.
One of the others drops the line
And she sinks in.
NPR,
The Book Club,
Re-Runs,
Cleverly played, leaves the other pining for the moment returned,
And now, falling upon the singular couple
hands held,
Something in them?
(her really...beauty, beauty, beauty)
And they ride the lull with an unspoken
Optimism, and the pitcher still full.
