Maybe I’m late to your work party on purpose and there’s a line to kiss the ring (your new boss’s ring) and she’s Silicon Valley cheekbones honeyed extensions come-hither lips
and maybe there’s a jerk of an intern who puckers up for a peck before she brushes him off with a ‘One’ or a sales guy with a swagger who tries to slip her the tongue and she laughs him away with a ‘Four’
and maybe I mad dash it to the bar because I think that’s where I’ll find you desperate for a drink because I’m sure she’s cleaning house right when we’re trying to buy one
and maybe this San (Man) Jose pub stinks of redwood and beer and my eyes are searching and the line gets longer and that’s when I spot you (stiff as a boardroom) her long cougar nails through your hipster geek hair red glossy mouth locking on yours
and maybe the merlot burns up into my throat and your cheeks start to bloom when she calls you a ‘Ten’ and I can’t feel the ring on my finger
and maybe the salesguy’s all up in my space again (a wild animal smell when I duck under his arm) and he says I’m a zero and my right eye starts twitching as my old watch stops ticking and that’s when I clock you pacing by the door
and maybe I remember when you didn’t want to believe me (how you said it was probably all in my head)
and maybe your new boss keeps marking her subjects ‘Five Eight Six Three’ and you’re staring at a crack in an old wood floor while I’m staring at the splinter in a high glass ceiling