I slide in behind her

At an all-night diner.

“Is this where I check my privilege?” I say.

 

She brokers a peace deal with her skirt,

Turns in her booth,

Sucks on her tooth,

Says:

“Baby, that ship has sailed.”

 

I shudder.

That’s what she offers?

A worn-out, semiotic ghost

Aback a limpid, limping host?

 

A cliche for my midday?

I’d at least hoped for a trope.

 

But still, she’s got gams to die for —

A fella would lie, kill and pilfer!

 

So I forgive the gambit.

I admit:

I’ve drawn from that linguistic well myself,

Every once in a blue moon.

Meta’s the name of that tune, baby.

 

“Baby.”

That reminds me:

I’m overreacting, maybe,

But I’d come to check my privilege, after all.

And she…

 

Well, she gets up. That’s what she does,

And I forget what the subject of my monograph was.

 

She slides in my booth,

Red of claw and truth;

Fluid, casual,

Like water seeking the low points.

Says:

“We are primed to look straight into our own hearts, but we aren’t very good at it.”