(This poem is dedicated to the woman who came up to me last night and asked this incomplete stranger to blow in her eye.)
The ripe hope on the cheeks of each
as they enter the bar
drunk with optimism that this could be it
destiny could be sitting at the bar
sipping time and tonic
leaving traces of her lipstick on an abandoned wine glass
a crumpled napkin
a five dollar tip
the last remains of her last conversation.
The bartender pockets her tip as she brushes past you
out into the mind of the night
where you’re a passing fancy
an idea that never reaches the tip of her tongue or pen
gone as soon as she slams the cab door.