What the Pocket Held

My friend sent a photo of the ring.

Your turn next!! Two exclamation points,

the warmth of someone meaning everything

by it. I sat there at the joints

of my own quiet—happy, I was,

and also seven years back in a booth,

my hand flat on the table. The pause

between courses. The box, the truth

of it pressing against my hip

from the pocket—small, blue-ish, three weeks

carried. Tonight was the night. I let it slip.

The moment came. I let it. Weeks

later, months, we were done.

She's got two kids now. I texted back:

the best news, so glad. I meant it—one

hundred percent I meant it. But back

there in the booth, my hand flat,

the check already paid, the box

still in my pocket. After that

the drive home. The drawer. The locks

I put on the whole thing and called timing.

The drawer I opened.

The drawer I closed.