Clink of fork on glass, plate dropped to the floor,
whoosh of bottles opening and mouths clenching shut.
The sound of sound slowing down. Everyone
knows that this is how life takes its respites,
mildew smell in the bathroom, sensation
of falling from flight. The man in the straw fedora
snatches glances at the moon, in between mixing
vodka tonics, pretends not to notice
when the girl in the black slip flashes him a smile
and goes back to sipping her Manhattan,
letting the light fall from her crestfallen eyes
down into puddles beneath the corrugated glass,
this turning and slaking until even the bushes outside
have no choice but to whisper in unison.
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