(and some flirting)

reading her my poetry
about a man with a swagger
‘neath red flame chandeliers
(and comparing notes)

circular narratives
about life and gypsies
and making sense of men
(and ourselves)

a text to her lover
in a moment of mischief
fueled with red wine
(and some flirting)

“I think she’s trying to get me drunk,” said I.
“I don’t blame her,” said he.
(and I smiled)

later, a single tear trickled
all the way to South America
(and it was very moist)