Like a french
girl you plunk
the bottle on our
table and
squarely smile,
nod, turn and
walk away.
Next time,
striped shirt showing
supple shoulders
as you push
the bangs out of
your brown eyes
and take our order
intently scrawling
on your tiny pad:
mustard, no onions.
You nod at him,
(again that nod)
lock eyes with me,
write every word
I’m saying without
ever looking down,
away from me.
At once
(after you’ve left)
I gulp air
go deep pink on the
surface,
before remembering:
probably just your way.