Our Diamond

Here we are, two patrons sitting

in adjacent chairs, I watch 

your banded ring finger 

fall slowly down the pages 

of our king’s words.

The steamer’s hissing, 

heating up distraction, 

from the blueish diamond 

resting on your hand. 

Its surrounding my eyes, 

the diamond hovering 

above your lap. 

“Is it spring yet? I’m wondering.”

I rest my copy,  

It’s tagged and chewed

at the hard cover corner

on the bottom right 

of it’s body.

Like the top right sleeves 

of the records that lived 

in the box the dog

decided to take issue with; 

to manage some endless 

anxiety on November 9th. 

All in the same moment, you rest, 

looking at your iPhone, then, 

Up at me, then quickly

backdown to your iPhone. 

You didn’t see me.

I wont tell anyone you did.

I am here though, 

and if you need me we can talk, 

about your husband 

and the election.

Believe this wasn’t his fault, 

I think we’re all complicit.

The ring doesn’t represent

us or the detachment. 

Its just a diamond in the moment,

for our endless entertainment,

for peasants dancing in your yard

for a day and for its evening,

for only this has left us reading 

our library books in Muddy Waters.