This afternoon's popcorn
is stuck to the roof of my mouth
and tempting flirtation
with my tongue's
fetish to unshackle
these binding chambers
between my teeth
but the 40 year-old woman
stares from across the bar
sips her drink
from the corner of her mouth
lights a cigarette
and noticably uncrosses her legs
as if each bit of popcorn fury
is an open invitation
to lay her head down
upon the pillow
that left your hair
tangled in the mornings
I no longer wake to
and just when I think
she's not looking in my direction
I feel a tickle in my cheek
it's only a bit of popcorn
but caresses my cheek
like the red fingernail
memories of an Aunt
coming into my own age
coming into my bars
and I know I'm only
on the break of thirty
but somehow it's still moving too fast
it's wrapping me in torn sheets
behind bedroom doors
I walk through alone
after taking the long way home