I was at the bar, nursing
a martini of broken men.
I was getting good at it.
I saw you talking to a girl in red
and decided to steal you away. When I did,
the red of her dress shrieked at me,
each sequin a glittering judgement.
I had you by the wrist, pulling you
across the party floor and out a door
flanked by huge pots of flowers.
The sweet peas and orchids were
wilted and forlorn.
The outside air hit us with the force of
a furnace, August born.
What now, you said.