The poet sits across the table in the dimness
Toying with cigarettes, fingers, thoughts
Of a pair of collarbones like bumps in the road,
Reminders to slow down.

The poet falls in love three separate times in an hour,
Imagining more collarbones, eyelashes, lips
That suddenly ask if he’d like to order anything,
No room. No, he’s full head to heels of unspoken words.

The poet sips his water and we try to make him laugh because we are teenagers in a sports bar at three in the afternoon on a Friday and we just want him to be ******* happy, ******* it to hell.