The Argument
a poem
He might as well begin with apologies
though he announces he doesn’t know what a sorry
is for. It annoys her right away. “It’s a promise
to do better. It’s saying you get that you did something
wrong.” They are arguing on a bench eating ice cream
while tourists walk around them. I circle back
because I am evil like that and their argument feels
like a play or one of those movies
with quiet volume that win awards.
But real fights aren’t that easy. There’s no quick
resolution, no knowledge that there is a denouement coming.
Ice cream drips onto his khakis. She jumps up, horrified.
“Your pants!” She bends in front of him almost as if in prayer,
dabbing the chocolate-brown stain with paper.
“It’s nothing,” he says, and I don’t know
if he means the argument, the stain, them, me.
We all grab each other by the sleeve, hoping
for attention. We all taste the dairy melting in our mouths
with promises to do better, engaging in stories not our own.
