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?