The Floor Option

Everyone was on the floor —

the way that happens at a certain age,

cross-legged on the carpet near the door,

a reference I had missed on every page.

I stood and held a beer I didn't like

against the wall and thought: this is fine.

Until she looked up, did the math, the spike

of wait, seriously? and then the line

that followed it: you don't seem it, though.

I said thanks and meant it, more or less.

The conversation moved. I watched it go.

Someone laughed at something. Someone's dress

was on the floor beside them. I could leave

or I could stay and I had always known

I'd stay. The room kept going. I kept my sleeve

against the wall. I smiled the whole way home,

past the lights, past the turn I always miss,

into the dark of my own street. The heat

still on. The house exactly as it is.

The floor there too, beneath my feet.