Lummox in a crooked collar,
he lopes in like a moose on fire,
the red fuzz of his hair aglow
in the bar's neon signage,
and the Necco wafers of his eyes
so round and blank he fails
to notice our stares.
Harold's in love.
 
He gulps. He glows. An odor
of pomegranate trails behind him
as he gropes his way to the girl
in the corner, knocks over
a chair, surrenders. She could
wrap his whole life up in brown paper,
send it anywhere. He wouldn't care.
Harold's in love.
 
She's pale as a candle. Her purse
embroidered with spirals and planets
is bigger than she is. But her sharp
little chin points toward him, her hair
spills over his arm. When their hands
entwine, green tendrils reach out like ivy
toward the rest us. Imagine
Sully's Pub held fast in kudzu vines.
 
The lights are buzzing strangely.
Marty swipes at a spot on the counter
that's already clean, polishing,
polishing. Harold and that girl
lean toward each other as the rest of us
roll our eyes, but conversations
falter. We know we've slept our lives away
and will you look at those two?

This poem first appeared in Touching: Poems of Love, Longing and Desire (Fearless Books, 2011).
Used here with the author's permission.