To the Girl with Pretty Hands Part II
J. K. Giih
I went to a bar to hear a poetry contest tonight
and you were there
but at the front and behind a corner
so I couldn’t see or hear you from the back
where I sat alone drinking a porter
reading a book about gods from outer space.
I only knew you were there
as I heard your name mentioned
as one of the names of the voluntary judges
of the poetry contest.
I wanted to talk to you
because I hadn’t in years
and confess my undying love
but was a nervous horse.
I expected you to walk past me at some point
on your way to the toilet
to powder your nose or to urinate
but you never did.
Disappointed, I left before the final round
to get to the grocery store before nine
when they stop selling alcohol
as dictated by regulations.
How am I supposed to justify
having chosen twelve urine flavoured beers
over the slim chance of catching
a glimpse of your face as you walk out the door?
And how can you listen to ten poets
many of them not nearly as good as you
read their poems for three minutes each
and not once feel like having to urinate?