"You haven't been smoking crack, have you?"
"That's a stupid question." If body bags came in green
the seat covers would be stitched from them.
Fingering the seams is a fine way to pass time
when conversation lulls.
To seem off is one thing. To be is another.
"Sometimes, I don't know," his left eye says. His right
asks to be invited, when the trees are singing,
the sky is stiff, and sound rings like smoke
against closed windows and doors and
pools, boredom.
The sun is blinking slower. Lazy clocked,
minutes yawning in between the upstretched arms
of cloud banks beyond the bar window seats.
Her hair is windblown, asking about
Jeanette and closed systems.
The night crowds
are hard, if she could be easy. Her hair stinks
from across the table. Sweat through pillows and
vending machine cakes. Her finger spins
the car key ring. "It's Friday, dummy."
He remembers the forecast
for snow
that won't stick. Flag a waiter, or walk up.
"Whatever works." He touches a shot glass to her bottle
empty. Her car isn't going to drive itself.
Eye contact is one hell of a drug,
given appropriate time. The walk outside
is amazing to taste. The air is fireplace and sunglass optional.
He offers a cigarette, but never could get her on the habit.
"You still gay?"
"Something like that." Look back to where.
The bar is so much smaller on its face. "You?"
The hood of a car is a poor place to sit,
especially when it is misted in sun shower rain drops.
"Something like that.
Sometimes I don't know." The lucky flip policy is loose.
She still does not smoke, though her skin blazes
in the slanted light against the too busy sky.
The engine turns over easily.
"Let's go get you right?" Her smile is a billion watts. Her nod
so much more.
