Night Out

I.

leather jacket, the only half-decent dive bar left downtown
I turn around and—unexpectedly—there you are

my drink drips on your chisel-toed Blunnies, 
your chapped lips purse playfully in reply

just like that we hit it off
I feel young again, giddy almost, emboldened by our banter

three beers and one smoke break in the question is asked:                                 
are you single? 

married, I reply
that's too bad, you exhale, I have this friend . . .

you let the possibility of another world, of hunger, desire, pleasure 
linger between us like a cloud of smoke

it dissipates
we separate

I leave before last call without saying goodbye
without making eye contact again, though I want to

you don’t even notice me go,
probably

II.

blurry drive home
it’s cold for this time of year, but I leave the window down anyway

fill and empty my lungs with needle sharp air
stitch my body and brain back together

come in the door
lock it twice behind me; enter domesticity

I kept the cigarette you offered in my pocket,
crumpled and unfinished

remembering this, I reach for it with fingers full of longing
dead leaves bruised by hasty knuckles release a smoky sweet scent

evidence of an alternate universe
fading now 

thoughts clutter my mind like
the supper dishes still in the sink

I should drink some water
I want nachos

I need to pee but there's a cat on my shoulder
I have a good life

III.

I leave the lights off as I undress,
slip into bed beside them with a sigh

match the rhythm of their breathing:
in, out, in

the heady cloud of you is still caught in my hair,
an almost borrowed life tingles on my wet tongue

my hand slides towards them in the dark, desperate to hold/be held but—
skin stops just short of skin

I can’t close the distance so
I hold my breath instead

the cat jumps onto the bed, settles into the chasm between us
her warmth on my chest purring in, out, in

she does her best to fill the hollow space inside me, eroded over time by the steady
flow of garbage days/late and later nights at the office/forgotten anniversaries

I think of our jackets hanging up in the hall side by side
I’ve never liked their windbreaker; they’d look much better in leather

in the mo(u)rning
I’ll throw your cigarette away