Casey L. Ford
SECOND DATE: CAFE WITH SMALL CHAIRS
Do I spy the room to find people I know,
notice notes of cardamom or cologne,
feel the way our fingers knit together?
Or do I think of how the twinkling lights
draped around the room dance in your eyes,
light the silver strands around your temples,
make the room into a fairy den?
Not just now.
Instead I’m scanning chair arms.
Wondering if I’ll fit into a booth.
Agonizing over scenes my ass could make.
Should’ve worn jeans to squeeze me in.
As the hostess moves us through the room,
as my hips graze other people’s arms,
as we near our table and I breathe
in and hold it, sink to take my seat,
I know every heartbeat in the room
has held like mine, wondering if I’ll fit.
It’s snug.
My flesh moves through
the arms and down; the chair accepts me,
shrunk to standard size by the din
of the recommenced chat, the toast, the chew.