there is an old oak outside the window

swaying to the wind, watching me scribble and

scurry and swallow and screech my way through

this dated concrete,

as we strut down the path of least resistance

with at least one person not acknowledging the other

but you say “you will be there?” and i hesitate

and stay a few hours too long

and drink a few drops too much

and learn one too many names

at the party two parties away from the best party

— and you drag me outside

to sit on a bench under the oak to listen to

a mournful melody, and to make

vague gestures at the wind to remind each other of

why we were here

why were we here?

i watch your face brighten