Nothing really happens
Two beers, I pick the label off your bottle.
I should welcome what you offer.
Shouldn’t be angry.
At the end of the night I lather soap
under cold water over your hand
while you wrestle a ring off then bruise
your own elbow on the sink edge. At least
we laugh at that.
One thought on "Nothing really happens"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
This poem feels like a polaroid image. Great job!