I heard this man

at the co-op explaining
with stammering certainty,
clutching a cardstock cup of
cold coffee to nearly a treacly 
nose bleed, how, now, Both
of my baby mama’s asked me
to marry them—I mean, really?
Whereby the man with the
mortar-white teeth 
immured in this 
not-by-the-hair-of-my
shoat-brusque stubble,
who seemed to be
fielding this all 
for a nickel, then
nodded and muttered
like one might 
milk hot tears
from a glassjawed 
cinderblock, Yep, 
that’s just the way 
it goes, I guess—
 
and now I can’t open
my eye to much more
than a Holga lens.