Bar Fight
The fight was in the air,

a tangible scent of awkwardness,
a vibration, stillness of sound,
hard packing sound of the rattling
of your bones underneath the skin,
like change in your pockets, a bouquet
of pennies and nickels summersault
their way across the dirty floor.

My name bubbles up from the corner of your fat lip
and from the hallway you stagger northeast toward me.

I had been at the table trying to rhyme lavender with pentameter,
dusk colored pen dribbling bad poetry onto an annoyingly lined notebook page,

that overwhelming boozy barroom pungent,
like the succulence of youth, hot on our breath,

you leave a trail of blood on the sidewalk,
imprinted pool on my shoulder where your
cheek fell heavy against me.