telling time
i’m shaking (another test
of nerves, faith, compatibility)
not for you or me but
perhaps for the both of us.
i’m shaking, a steady sneaker clad
mantra that moves the table
quick, jittery. you blink
“Stop you’re making me nervous.”
hands, like a clock’s thin fingers,
creep up from the six that is your lap
to the eleven of my knee.
please, let’s hold our breaths
cross our fingers and leap
away from these hard backed chairs.
cold floor, full of yellow flecked
half-formed memories, all cut short
before they could really begin.
(move on) to where we know
each other—like sometimes
you click your tongue,
only drink hot sprite,
and when you drive you tap
your index finger (long and knobby)
on the dash while traffic is congested
like your uncle Bernie’s heart.
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