Love Song

The lights are down
in the bar, though outside
the late summer sun
is just setting. Each time
the door opens, light splashes
the couple in front of the stage:
overdressed teenagers
waiting for the headliner.
The girl is petite and nervous.
The boy keeps his hands on her hips.
He thinks he’s lucky, and he
may be. After all, I married you,
my high school sweetheart,
and love you still with all the angst
and awkwardness of a teenage girl.

Lucky you. You press
your hip against my hip,
nurse your drink and listen.
Lucky me. The boy in the front row
shifts from foot to foot, self-conscious.
Dance with her, you fool,
I think, but they don’t dance
and don’t know yet what the singer means—
I can never trust you, lover.
You should never trust me either—
that this is a love song,
a song about love, and not even,
as love songs go, all that sad.

In the back of the bar,
the crowd drowns out the music
and a flutter in my peripheral vision—
pigeons landing on the roof
outside the high west-facing windows—
becomes the only thing
it can be: angels alighting,
pressing their perfect ears to the stained glass
then taking off again,
feathers aquiver.

Amy Watkins lives in Orlando, Florida, with her husband and daughter. You can read more of her poetry online at The Pedestal Magazine, Umbrella, and LiteraryMama.