you said you'd meet your dad tonight. and i didn't believe you.
so i stalked you to this steakhouse, decidedly straight, with this gothic bar, and sawdust tufting on the floor.
i saw you and another happy hour habitue' hunkering on the bar like your team just choked on a finals game.
i vanished myself in this ill lit cul-de-sac table and nursed myself to a bitter ale while peanut shells beaded around my shoes like petrified sweat.
and then i saw you kiss on the cheek a tottering man sporting a tam-o'-shanter in this heat. just in time when the waiter asked me if i wanted more of the same drink i haven't touched. i said yes and his smile was, like williams carlos williams' plums from an icebox, so sweet and so cold.
