I didn’t mean to
brush your breast
with the back
of my hand.

I swear

it was an honest mistake.
We were both just
in a rush                    to run
this food, caught

in jackpot
positions. I’d apologize
but when I did last
week I could see

it only raised the awkward
bar. It’s painful enough
maneuvering through
my own synthetic smiles

reaching
over guests for their bloody
ketchup bottles
& dirty dishes

caked with that sweet surrender
 
of my own autonomy.
Now I find myself
sighing into your eyes
after we change directions

three times to avoid
collision. I can’t say
with a straight face
that it all won’t happen

again

tomorrow.