Gary’s Point of View

I’m looking at my bicep in the glass,

trying to decide if this shirt is too loud

for a room full of people I don’t like.

There it is.

A yellow-green smudge,

the shape of a thumb,

like a coffee stain on a white counter

that didn’t get wiped up in time.

Gary was shouting about the block-chain

and the future of the dollar.

He clamped his hand on my arm

to keep me from drifting toward the chips,

squeezing his point into my skin.

Now I have to wear sleeves.