Refraction

The diner was loud with the clatter of plates

and the steam from the grill was a thick, greasy veil.

I watched the clock ticking toward one of our dates

and felt the whole afternoon starting to fail.

I let the glass go, just a tilt of the wrist,

a heavy, clear thud on the linoleum floor.

I waited for the silence, for the turn and the twist,

of a dozen strangers looking toward the door.

But the waiter just moved with a bucket and broom,

and you kept on talking about some movie you’d seen.

The water soaked into my jeans in the gloom,

a cold, heavy weight where the comfort had been.