It was our third date, today,
we dated, I think it was a date,
we had lunch, we talked,
we argued. I thought about
falling in love with you,
considered that you might
never fall for me, ordered
bacon and eggs on croissant,
the same as you and knowingly
sipped water as you spoke
about Villon. I know that you
are French. Is this why
we do not understand each other?
I thought the French were only
rude in France. To your credit,
you handled English well,
almost expertly, as if your visa
weren’t about to expire. Still,
it felt like we were butting
heads; I do not mean to imply
the birthmark on your forehead,
I could surely love it one day.
I even said our talk was like
poking each other in the eye.
You understand eyes and how
I looked away when you spoke.
It was not as if Court Street
was so intriguing that I just
had to look out the window.
No. I listened to your voice
and pictured someone else
I’d like to know, reading me love
poems over coffee and juice.
No luck. I looked back and
found you staring at your plate.
It cheered me up. Later,
we walked in circles enjoying
the sunlight after so many
days of rain. The rain
was better; it was a wise hand
that kept us apart.