Bug Bites and Bite Marks

Today is slow, stacking box after box of Saltines on shelves,
Making bad lattes and laughing when the milk splatters
And scalds my hands.
I have made far too much foam so, frowning, I pour the excess into the metal sink,
Where it steams and bubbles and eventually disappears.

And later, you pick me up at the corner, sadder and softer than usual
And when you press me up against the car, I kiss you as hard as I can
Because you are warm and tangible and I know you can get me out of this town
Where I spend my evenings sitting on a cold stone bench, pen in hand,
Eating a lopsided sandwich, trying to stretch this dusky half hour out
As long as possible before I return to the endless line of trophy wives
With their yoga mats and house accounts,
Charging pint after pint of pistachio gelato as they scoff at my Saltines,
Point out the rogue air bubbles in my non-fat latte foam,
Fingernails clicking as they reach for a bottle of Chardonnay at the last minute,
Proud that after all these years in this town they can still be spontaneous.

I try not to think on this as I nestle the wine bottle into green tissue paper,
Letting the cool glass moisten my hands as I fold the bag over at the top,
Select the shiniest pennies from my drawer and lay them gently in their hands.

For this is all they have to show for themselves:
A monogrammed grocery bag
A small pile of coins
A cloudy bottle of Chardonnay that has begun to condense around the edges.

They hold these things to their chests
As if they would shatter on contact,
Cower at the sound of words,
Melt in the moonlight.

Just as I hold close my bug bites and bite marks,
All I have to show for a breezy evening spent with you in the park,
My own desperate display of spontaneity.