No One Should Have To Go

You say you wanted me over.
For some dinner, you say.
Yet your wrist is braced
As you take a bite of tortellini.
I swore, I had salad in my teeth,
A great brute in the crow’s nest
Of my collective vanity.
You saw through me, like a crystal lamp,
Lampooning my doubts.
I saw far, far into you,
Like a constant sea-sick kaleidoscope.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” you ask.
“No,” I insist, and ask the same.
“Yes,” you say, along with other things.
“Do you really have to go?”
“Yes,” I sigh, “Yes, it is so.”

The kaleidoscope ends after all.
I should have known, no matter—
I take you to your hotel home.
“When will I see you again?”
Clogging traffic sounds.
I went back to my hotel
To cramp my hand.