Tonight's Poet Corner: It's A Date

It's A Date
by Belinda Roddie

We kissed over lukewarm
bowls of soup at the tiny bistro
that was probably going to close
down in the next four months, as
the owner was getting old, and
her bones were beginning to poke
through the folds of her skirt
as she creaked her way across
the outside dining area. We kissed

when it was dark enough so that
the spindly lamps glowed orange,
because when they did that, you
could see our silhouettes moving,
but not our faces, and not the
idiosyncratic fidgeting of our hands
slipping under each other's black
coats. We kissed once we knew

that our parents wouldn't care
anymore about the consequences, and
we knew that God had given up on
saving us, and we knew that the facade
of civil society was pulling off its
decaying mask to reveal a decaying
laugh on its decaying lips. Theater

has a funny way of reminding us of
just that: That it's all theater, and
the man in charge of drawing the curtain
across the stage has suffered from cardiac
arrest and left the tableau exposed. Scene:
A bistro on its last legs; twilight blisters.

We kissed, and she tasted so good,
better than the bisque in the white chalice
in front of me. Saltier, too. And warmer.