The girl in the green sweater
sings along and winks at me.
She plays air tambourine,
dances like a robot,
her hair looks amazing everyday.
She calls brass knuckles “knucks”
and whiskey neat a “sipper”.
When we talk
over the rims of pints and shot glasses.
Gulp on the edge of tumbling to slow the pace of things.
toe tap to the baseline of Cure songs.
I memorize our rattled chatter.
Note that she likes when I wear
my favorite brown shirt with black slacks.
Make moves without making moves.
Microbursts of flirts and eye contact.
Gestures I could have created but controlled.
Sips on the edge of tumbling
to slow the pace of things, everything.
A Memphis kind of
Music too loud to get close,
to lean in
tell her that she looks nice.
Wish I was