Smoking in the girls’ room, sneaking a drink, napping
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We stood in groups of twos and threes
on the sidewalk outside the bar,
talking, smoking, watching traffic and each other,
one quiet old guy by himself looking at the moon,
when a quick motion caught our eyes
as the girl pounced on her boyfriend,
shimmied up his tall torso,
squeezed her legs around his waist,
clasped her arms around his neck,
pressed her face into his hair.
If I were a prophet, I’d say
a burst of light surrounded them
like a glory. Like revelation, like satori,
we were all converted on the spot:
for the rest of our lives we’d wait
for such a rapture,
our bodies suddenly made heavy
with bone and flesh not our own.
I caught the old man looking, dumbstruck,
until he collected himself
and went back to staring at stars.
At first the boyfriend took it like a puppy’s exuberance,
continued the conversation as though that leap,
still rebounding in our chests,
were nothing special. But his girl did not unlatch.
She tightened her arms and legs around him
until who knows what was let loose inside,
and he hugged her back, with a shy smile at us,
as if embarrassed by his riches.