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?
Tap 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 stare of being
I grasp a pen and scribble phrases on the tip line,
phrases that animate, phrases that beat
the old “how’ve you been.”
Customer copy crumpled in my pocket,
Tecate holding my place, I shuffle past bodies,
pen poised. I say hi, and dip my BIC
into the inkwell of my youth.