jukebox

I watched you from the other side of the equator
you traced, so sloppy,
perpendicular to the bar counter
we’d leaned on together
until you left for warmer climes,
or deeper dives
into dives that’ll have to do
until we’re of age
So, I watched you and I wondered
“Am I of youth?”
as the bourbon burned my tongue,
so I didn’t have to wait for an answer.
And thank god—
I’ve heard patience is a virtue
and by virtue of my 80 proof
I’m fresh out tonight,
thinking backwards like a movie plot
told from end to beginning
(and I guess that’s reminiscing)
of you and yours and mine
and bottom shelf booze
for bottomdwellers in the alcoholic sea
of 6pm-got-nothing-to-do
deep sea diving while
the light from the jukebox,
dim as through a lampshade
that shades my eyes from looking
at yours,
invites explorers to search amongst old species—old cds—
for new ones you’ll write home about
and go home without,
bittersweet half-success/half-failure
like the divisor of our dive
tonight
and every other
until we’re of age,
doffing immaturity
for the insecurity
that being in love entails.