Two Glasses of Wine

Oh boy, I just saw her. Behind the bar, now

she’s our server. The slender long haired girl.

The woman, my wife says, the young woman.

Yes. I didn’t want wine. My wife orders some.

I’m just hungry but don’t want to disappoint.

We have finished our taxes, so I order a glass

Of the same. I follow the bare waist, slightly

less slight than the circumference of my hands,

like a neck peeking up from her denim pants.

She’s on a mission, asks a question and turns

away before she has to listen. She’s working

to get the number of the man seated between

his mom and my wife. The navel scented

cocktail touched with salt swells into the

impermissible. A blushing thought, a taste

Of split ripe cantaloupe, kissed by the idea

of moonlight. We order pizza but I’m not

thinking anything. I fold a slice, eat with

Purpose, the hot greasy pepperoni. Dab my chin.

I look up only to hand her my payment and

after I’ve set down my pen, adding the tip.

Of course, I thank her when she refills the water.

But I wake at night, to take a cool drink. Water,

paper and pen again resting on my nightstand.

There's never enough space for all of my things.