Our Diamond
Here we are, two patrons sitting
in adjacent chairs, I watch
your banded ring finger
fall slowly down the pages
of our king’s words.
The steamer’s hissing,
heating up distraction,
from the blueish diamond
resting on your hand.
Its surrounding my eyes,
the diamond hovering
above your lap.
“Is it spring yet? I’m wondering.”
I rest my copy,
It’s tagged and chewed
at the hard cover corner
on the bottom right
of it’s body.
Like the top right sleeves
of the records that lived
in the box the dog
decided to take issue with;
to manage some endless
anxiety on November 9th.
All in the same moment, you rest,
looking at your iPhone, then,
Up at me, then quickly
backdown to your iPhone.
You didn’t see me.
I wont tell anyone you did.
I am here though,
and if you need me we can talk,
about your husband
and the election.
Believe this wasn’t his fault,
I think we’re all complicit.
The ring doesn’t represent
us or the detachment.
Its just a diamond in the moment,
for our endless entertainment,
for peasants dancing in your yard
for a day and for its evening,
for only this has left us reading
our library books in Muddy Waters.