March poetry 2 – Pattern


It’s a crowded space.
Your Guinness is stale.
You are squirming
like a girl made to
take her cough syrup,
and the server hears
how your eyelashes
flutter as your eyes
roll. I squint my eyes
until your features
become familiar
for two whole moments –
the rest of the time
you will teach me more.

Whether it always
begins the same or
has never had a
starting point at all
is of no consequence:

as for two whole beats
you’re reminded
of the circumstances
under which we met.
I don’t know about you,
but I’d been alerted
that you’re a handful.
I wonder what type
of object you were
told I was. Who cares?

There’s never been a
starting point and it
will never fail to
begin the same way:
for two whole seconds
my features become
familiar, and
it doesn’t matter
that we keep failing
to see the pattern.


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