Dinner in a Quaint, Korean Restaurant

Though the mirror image of my face
Is clearly embossed
On the back
Of my fork,
The creature staring back at me
When I looked down
At my hand
Alerted me to how
Beat up my ring really

It is white gold,
Though I tell most
People it's platinum,
For even cancer
Would seem lustrous
If enough people
Sought after it.

It slips off often,
Though I dread getting it
Refitted. My fingers were once
Endowed in circumfrence. I'm not

Interested in knowing my size.
There is a beauty to the ambiguity
Of large and not large,
And if we're talking in those terms
I'm mammoth.

She could not afford platinum.
She actually could not
Afford white gold. I bought it
And she said she'd pay me
Back but years later
Only her mouth to feed but still
I'm on the road and she's

On our road is the only place
I can look at her and feel
Satisfied. In your eyes.
The right one. What's that?
Here look down

In my ring--
Your reflection
In it
Is far
Clearer than mine,
Though less

Accurate. You almost
Look like a grown
Man. Almost. Your lips are
Far too full, your face
Unlined despite scratches. Hairline
says nothing, but try
On my ring. It will stay
(If you catch me)
I mean you know
What they say about
Boys with thick fingers.