You impregnate my mind with shrill
bells and whistles, alerting me—one
new to the game—of things like
protocol and timing: when he should
call, everything this Mr. Moment should do,
setting expectations never to be met.
We cruise bars, station ourselves
in aisles, mouths to each other's ear, talking
above music that makes our scalp's throb, a hapless
attempt to see and to be seen in places
that smell of tobacco, fire, testosterone,
some so dim their lights are swallowed
by darkness. With the ease of a skeet shooter,
you blast my targets with disapproval.
Innocence and second-hand smoke work
me to your advantage, keep me
entwined, until I realize this charade,
your misguiding insight, is a ploy for me
to need you more because
you want me that much.
Copyright © Michael Mastrofrancesco 2001
Appeared in Pacific Review