Last Time
Last time I was in here
things were different.
But this place, it looks,
it smells, it sounds
just the same.
Same threadbare seats,
same bar stools, same
bums probably. Some,
at least. But I don’t
remember who.
Must be more than
ten years ago.
Must be.
You were trying to hold
my hand and I was trying
to pull it back. You
bought me a drink
I didn’t want. You
introduced me to a bloke
called Dave, or Phil, or Joe,
or something. I didn’t know
what to say. You tasted
of Guinness in the kiss
that cringed me.
In front of everyone.
Said you’d been missing me
all week. Your arm weighed
possession-heavy
on my back. Your mouth
kept smearing spit
on my cheek.
It wasn’t your fault
and I should’ve waited
or been more clear before,
what I wanted or that I… didn’t.
The sag of the bench seat
was eating me whole and
I couldn’t wait,
in case my new heels
got beer on them.
(I’d bought them ‘cause
I’d seen them in Cosmo.)
No one wants to be dumped
with Dave or Phil or Joe spectating.
My youth’s impatience was and is
no excuse. You tried to buy me
another drink
I didn’t want. You tugged
my wrist and gnawed your
lip ‘til I was prying your
fingers away, like
clamped jaws,
sinking teeth,
of a rabid dog.
It wasn’t your fault.
The cling of hurt, the ouch
pinching your eyes was
mine. Last time
I was in here,
I was different.
Can I buy you a drink?
