Looking for spare change, I find

a spoon in my lover’s pants pocket

 

and it smells like liquor. I shake

his khakis and out falls more noise

 

than a quarter and dime should make.

What hits the floor can shake a place,

 

like upstairs neighbors fighting

last night. Pots and pans, and I imagine,

 

elbows and knees slammed above me.

Gravity does not hold a ceiling to a wall,

 

one lover to another. Did our builder

count out his nails? Loose hinges

 

cause doors to dangle, and the cat

sneaks out. Random pieces of grass

 

get stuck in a wandering shoe.

Maybe our neighbors threw the spoon

 

out the window and my lover found

it on his way home. I run my tongue

 

along its cool, arched back, taste

not quite Bourbon, not white

 

wine. I slide both hands in his pockets

to see what else I might find.

 

 

Beth Oast Williams

 

Beth Oast Williams is a student with the Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, Virginia. Her poetry has appeared in West Texas Literary Review, Wisconsin Review, Glass Mountain, The Bookends Review, and Willard and Maple, among others. She was nominated for the 2019 Pushcart Prize in poetry, received second place in the 2019 Poetry Matters Project and was a semi-finalist for Poet’s Billow’s 2018 Atlantis Award. Her workshop experience includes Bread Loaf and VQR Writers Conferences.

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