across from me: those girly puffy lips
around each gulp of noodles, drip-ping, su-
cking chicken broth. now pictures flash, old clips
of laughing soup steam kissing our warm cheeks
and you’re there talking to me (really? yes).
but every time you lean in, hot broth leaks.
your clumsy, knobby hands just make a mess
it’s not their fault; those gawky bones get in
the way of my cilantro-heaven more
right now than when you wiped my dripping chin
while joking, five years back in this same store.
and yet i know, from that familiar smirk,
the jerry-elaine thing would never work.