Break

I've never heard a better fiddler
than the man on main street
who's cross-eyed.
Because of him,
I once tried to pick up the guitar
but it was too heavy and
my weak limbs screamed in protest.
I have better luck demagnetizing room keys,
anyway.
And getting locked out of
said hotel rooms.
That's how we met.
By then all you'd gotten from your
poli sci degree was a paper cut.
And that reminded you
startlingly of your mother.
And her constant instructions
to 'sit up straight!' and
unconsciously you corrected your
years of perfected bad posture.
You would hate when I'd slump
in my chair as if I was
trying to disappear
or at least hide.
Muttering 'I'm sorry'
for my barbaric
table manners and for
the heavy conversation that you
couldn't seem to carry.
But I know,
after all these years,
you still look up
at the moon
and think of me.
Just as I glance at
clocks and remember you.
But, we straighten up
and move on.