S, with her Ex, goes out
in Alphabet City to eat
at a place called Ate on 8th
& as they raise their glinting
red-wine glasses, eyes meet,
Ex says, “To us,” like the past.
Outside, 8th Street bustles
toward the lower Lower East Side.
S averts her eyes when she feels
overly interior & talks of
the ongoing war, going on
overseas. “When will it end?”
Ex replies, “Those who hate democracy
hate us for being free,” & as he talks, S recalls
resting her head over his heart, in bed.
The sign for infinity seems an 8
tipped over, or two S’s
intertwined, figures on their sides.
Just then the waiter
descends, queries, “Everything ok?“
S responds, “The fare is fine.”
Ex says, “Check please.” Funny how infinite
one moment can seem, how foreign,
fleeting really, affairs can be.