Not Going

Not Going

Your spiral notebook hugged
to your chest, the menu
of attacks
you get to choose from.

You tell me seventy-five
percent prefer the steak
to the veal.
That’s because you asked sheep.

Should we share the jealousy
platter? Or would you prefer
separate bills?
My balls on your tab,
and your smile on mine.
I agree to pay for both.

You peek at your menu,
suggesting a correlation
between last year’s riots,
and the stain
on my blouse,
the mud in my hair.

I don’t believe in leading
questions, indirect reactions,
or improper fractions.

A pencil rolls to the floor,
the clock thumps
past the hour mark,
you bend to reach for the lead
and the card slips
from its bed.
The invitation winks
at me and you…
you almost do too.

I walk away backwards,
watching the base
of my brain.
I know, now,
I’m not going.