Published in Subtletea.
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
|Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.|
|That is not it, at all.”|
T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
And she set her teacup down on the table at the O.K. Cafe.
She said nothing.
I knew I had passed the dagger, handle first, her way,
And face-forward turned my back.
(May the lady have a heart
With a side of bitter dipping sauce?)
She sipped again.
Nervous, not thirsty.
"Maybe you misunderstood." I made
Odd noises on the diner vinyl.
(The clock is ticking loudly
Like a sharpening guillotine.)
"I meant, like friends..."
And she rose and left the room.