Dairy Land

He brings a bottle of the expensive stuff,

the kind of wine that makes my glasses look rough.

I watch him sit and try to find his grace,

on a plastic square that's totally out of place.

It’s black and grid-locked, stolen from the store,

leaving a waffle-patterned bruise on the floor.

My shin has a purple dent, a secret mark

from where I kicked the corner in the dark.

He balances his drink on the uneven rim,

while I try to act like I’m not failing him.