Spilt beer

Augie, sweet girl, lived with her olds nearby

the intersection of the two major

arteries that link up the tethered isle

with the metropolis; the bus would roar

through the strip mall where my mother’s gift shop

sat at the top of Petrarch Avenue,

pass the bowling club, then corner, and stop

to let you off before it would renew

its howling on the straight past the lighthouse,

then negotiate the decline toward

the old fishing village. I’m curious

as to how my journey might have played out

if I’d been with Augie, her strawberry

hair and her skin like milk; the signs were there

to get serious, what got in the way

it’s hard to recall; was she just too square

for my mercurial temperament? I

had an invitation to her house once;

I sat on the chintz sofa with the sky

staring through the window at my fingers

resting on my pantslegs while Augie’s dad

engaged me in pleasant conversation

and poured beer to enliven the arid

ensemble we made; there were complaisant

mutterings when I forgot to open

my mouth while tipping my glass, spilling beer

on my tie. I had been overtaken

either by a bad conscience or some queer

anticipation of intimacy;

things hovered in the room like poltergeists.

Had her father asked to meet me? Did she

think that our recent friendship might convert

itself suddenly to romance? That would

have put an unwarranted rationale

on our ties, which were never understood

so entirely as to want parental

consent. Thus my thoughts unfolded as we

got in the car and drove down to the golf

club by the sea (we were always by the sea)

where we ate lunch, our knees under the stiff

tablecloth; it might have been a buffet,

and though I spilt nothing else on myself

it’s like Augie had tucked herself away

just like a white napkin: folded up safe.