at a restaurant in the late afternoon
not really for the restaurant
and he’s talking to you or the lad beside you
about his lovesick life
fishing his words, tragically, innocently
it makes you first question the sincerity
but the red on the chair he’s sitting
in your guy’s shared booth
and the green on the box that’s been placed
supposedly by his head from your view
evokes it to be sensually comforting
you’d love to love his lovesick grimace
but before you can finish affirming that thought
he interrupts with another unsolicited tale
of the same woman that has him shining sulk
and you’re just there watching
waiting for another reassuring grip on his shoulder
tripping all over his tongue when you question
her interest, if any atom at all
