You shoot out of the smoke-swirling pinball cloud

that is this rubicund rich neon night and flashes

of golden bitter beer and rumbling laughter. First,

a flat warm rub along the crest my back – a touch

of such utterly ignorable intimacy that I, unknowingly,

ignore it. And yet something about it must have

thrown me off; I search along the darkness of

an arm and find its owner – it is not my sweet and

kind love. So intrinsically programmed to make room, I

make room – I jump to my feet – I assume you were asking

to get through. Indeed already an apology is taking form

on the verge of my small lips but your big lips break

into a sweat-stained smirk just as you 

swiftly take my seat. 

And thus you sit, and here I stand and I – once more – 

observe the staleness of your stranger hand reaching 

so nonchalantly towards me. 

I watch

you 

pat my bum

and turn away.