In real life
For P.
after chemo
my hairline never came back
you say
reaching for another chicken wing
fingers slathered
in smoky korean barbecue.
outside is snow-hover november
but it’s nursing home toasty
in ye olde new england taverne.
you promised you would eat four of my french fries,
liar.
our waiter sees his opening on your face,
thrusts a screenshot of his weekend wedding
in york p.a.
second time for both, five kids between them.
she’s stunning you say
(of course you say)
smear of sauce on your chin
if i’m being honest here.
you poke at the wing-bone pile
god i’m disgusting
but no, no. we once did pretty as a job
and i’ve seen you static.
you are most exquisite
messy, uncertain,
alive.