Workbench

We slept in Sunday,

Shovels leaned against

The bench inside the garage.

The car was showing

Engine lights,

But drove okay.

The woman at the bar that night

Appeared to be her twin,

The guy beside her

An assistant professor wannabe.

He spoke behind

His overgroomed half beard

Of grading,

Lenses, othering.

It was clear that I was right,

Then she agreed,

Derrida expressed it best.

I lost all interest

And just enjoyed the blonde tips

Of her ink-black hair

And let them be

Alone.

That evening of the Lord,

You moaned so loud

As we ignored

The dirty tools

At rest outside.

- 10/6/25