Accounting

I sat next to you at the wedding and I wore a green shirt,

the one shaded like grass nearly dying for its want of water,

my red tie knotted loosely, and black shoes that were not shined.

I cannot recall what you were wearing, save that it was a dress, but

I remember that I did not know you on first or second glance

(it may have been the first time that I truly noticed your eyelashes),

and then my smile of delight on recognition.

I had come to the wedding because rumors of the reception had promised

the irresistible extravagance of bacon-wrapped shrimp and an open bar.

“I want whatever is red and can be poured into two glasses,”

You said to the bartender. He handed us two bottles until you went back for more.

I never said goodbye to you. I had seen the hair of a woman I had hurt very deeply

through a window. She was sweeping up the dust and grime and beer

from beneath the tables in a bar like many others, where the waitresses

wear their skirts too short and the beer is too expensive and too cheap at the same time

and I’d already spilled wine on my shirt to match my tie so I spun around

and went across the street and ordered three double vodkas and left a twenty on the bar

then went back across the street and certainly said cruel and unfair things

to that unfortunate girl, though I do not know the precise wording,

and from what I was told I was found by old friends laying face-down

in the grass by the river and that sounds just like something I would do.

I never said goodbye to you and eight months later you were dead.