You: Bartender at the left wing bar, sleeves
rolled up, preaching happiness, Fredrich
Nietzsche. Small scar across your chin. We
high-fived, nodded about get-out-the-vote
rallies, about Gore, Clinton, and Obama.
Me: A nonviolent god. Blue-eyed poet
nursing a bourbon. White sweater. Yellow
dog democrat in suede boots. You asked
how I felt about the death penalty
and I made a joke about novels. I should
have told you how much I liked your lip ring,
the way you absentmindedly called me
sweetheart. I never gave you my number.
I use a typewriter. You have long fingers.