How do I tell a woman so much younger
that she’s exquisite, that I admire her intellect?
That the way she looks at me disconcerts,
that I haven’t felt this way in many years?
I don’t; it’s safer to ask her to close me out,
for me to find some bills, pay and tip her.
It must be my imagination. I walk out
into the night’s enfolding silence. Here my
thoughts batter me, safely. Anyway, I’m on
foot. I think I have the energy to make it home.
Andrew Shattuck McBride
April 22, 2012