Getting Drinks

There was the flat desert bed
of the rooftop,
the rough stone of
the bar — supposed to
render it “rustic” and “Mexican”.
There were the skylights,
and the April cloudless blue
above that, still a little cold,
that reflected in our
margaritas.
There was the architecture,
too, of her hesitant face,
still holding back like some
lofty arch.
And when I stood up to 
leave, there was my body —
an eave
made of the wrong material.

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