As she walks up to him standing on line:
How'd you get so turquoise?
referring to the neon of her shirt
winking from beneath her raincoat.
She stares at him, hard.
She thinks I have nothing to say
when he most wants an answer,
better to leave his breath-pumped words
fragrant in the air between us like nicotine.
So, later:
Did I embarrass you?
ducking his mouth into her hair.
She murmurs and moves her head from shoulder to shoulder
and bathtub-fills,
pre-tongued speech chugging through her blood.

What did I do, some
kindergarten good samaritan act to receive you?
Superfluous with Right Things,
a rainstorm of beautiful language,
a shooting gallery of bullet jokes
that spit me down dead,
your slightly looped devil smile,
a churning potion of bliss and shame,
and oh, the way your mouth feels against my hair!
Yes, you embarrass me.
It embarrasses me that I can't hand you a gilt-wrapped
response to calm you,
wires hot with caffeine and doubt
jumping and crossing beneath your skin.
It embarrasses me to think I once thought
something else, something not you, was ever good.

Instead she turns her face to him,
a blank, hard moon.
Kisses him thick on the cheek,
and immediately and roughly scrapes off
the lipstick with the side of her hand.