Floor Shadow

At the bar I sit next to him,
young shock, beard scrag,
a tic in his cheek like a song.
Three sips of wine to go, then
stem's up, my fourth in a row.
The fight last night, the drink
for someone's girl, still lies
in the floor as crumbs of glass.
I notice when he touches my knee.
Sand-small, swept in an arc
by a careless broom. A parenthesis.

- Janann Dawkins