On the edge of the sticky mohogany
my legs cross underneath, canvas-tipped toes
against the lower rungs of the bar stool.
My pencil skirt is tighter than I wish it,
drawing my attention to the plump filling out
the round of the padded cushion.
Can I get a Tecate?
Tapping a silver debit card like dividing up a drug,
Not thinking. The bartender returns,
drink already condensating
I turn to grab a pen from my purse,
I always have pens,
black pens, red pens, medium, fine tipped
My hand stumbles around while my eyes find a vision:
beard in a cardigan, mole on a cheek,
the same square-framed glasses I’d seen years before
reflecting coffee cups and cigarettes
held by shaking hands,
the caffeination and the hours of reading
and correcting, the corrector’s ink
and the suggestor’s script
Aware of my obtuse sense of being
I grasp a pen and scribble phrases on the tip line.