A kiss, for the mint girl

Come, silly familiar boy, and we’ll be off
to the land of Indian food and exotic movies
(at least for tonight). We’ll tell revisions
of stories told before; your workplace,
my writing, the cats, weekend plans.

Then you’ll drive me across town, in a truck
which is gathering years in the same way
that we’re collecting grey hairs. We’ll park
in the back, to avoid the gauche teenagers,

and duck inside for our secret rendezvous
with a Kevin Spacey movie. Do you remember
our first movie? I don’t; I liked moviegoing
with you better once we settled out which
one of us got to use the shared armrest.

You’re waiting. I’m late. I’m rushing from
room to room, seeking socks, taking the time
and luxury of pinning up my hair. I announce
that I am ready and smile at your back.

My tongue darts silently to my crooked left incisor;
the stinging, sweet bite of a dab of toothpaste.
It tastes like my breath smells: clean, mint.

After dinner, after movie—perhaps -
in the silence at the end of the reel—
a kiss, for the mint girl.

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