Poet
by Caitlin Thomson
He talked about dish towels,
and the importance of oven mitts.
How colour choice was everything,
patterns largely inconsequential.
I went to the bathroom after thirty
minutes, hoping that he would change
the subject. I knew he was well intended,
he kept making eye contact
while listing details about fabric choice,
durability. Whenever my hands
shuffled, he would alter the tone of his voice
and I would pay attention once again.
When I returned, he asked about my life,
what did I do for a living? Two sentences later
he asked for the check.