“He’s not a bad guy, I suppose,” I said
as we both appraised him
(or rather the back of his head)
at the bar sipping overpriced scotch
staring out the country club window
fiddling with his antique watch
in leather loafers and crisp khaki slacks
like a vintage menswear ad
business casual, professionally relaxed
no, I guess he is not bad
despite every attempt I made
to find some irredeemable fault
something ugly enough to kill
the infatuation in your eyes
as you watch him pay the bill
or perhaps thank the waiter
or order another drink on a whim –
The hell I know because I’m not watching
I’m looking at you as you look at him
