I’ve looked for the prompt, I’ve waited with the best of them, for the waiter. For the menu. For the last time at the very least.
I don’t have your brow. I don’t even have that much sweat. I don’t bray. And I had very little to say in January. For the last time.
I’ve rubbed until fleshy flexes and tenses and changes against my own touching. At the very least.
I wait for my ankles not to be cold, but to still be uncovered. This is not a revelation. It’s not even pretty.