Subtext

Four seats

at the table, one empty.

Old friend across me,

the other, new and exciting.

“Did you smell the smoke

outside this morning?”

I ask, flicking the table’s

dead lighter.

I know it won’t work,

but new friend watches

like I am a magician,

so I keep trying.

“Heard it was a mulch fire,”

old friend answers,

digging into his pipe.

Does he realize

the irony that lingers?

I begin telling a story

about a dead-tired

woman and all the fires

she had to extinguish

inside of her.

Three mouths

at the table, two talking.

Old friend’s joke about

Tapatío is more interesting.

“I can’t breathe,”

new friend wheezes

through bouts of laughter.

He has stopped watching

my game with the lighter.

Disconnected,

old friend acts like he

has never seen

the shape of my lips

talking about important

things.

Six eyes

at the table, two glistening,

two lost in a haze

too unfamiliar with this

feeling of closeness,

two dancing, still curious.

New friend’s attention

eagerly returns when I stand.

“Night,” I sigh, handing

him the dead-tired lighter

as if passing

on the reigns to my

magic act.

Four seats

at the table, two empty.