Selena

Selena, 
I’m not sure,
what to do with you. 

While black stained glass,
lays beneath our feet,
in Celon,
on West 40th, 
and we toast to nothingness,
and everything,
glazing over merlot,
and heaping over small talk; 
Do you want to rip my clothes off like I do,

yours ? 

Selena,
is this new to you too? 
Are you clenching your legs tightly in your little sundress at the bar
in this black high chair as I am? 

Is your mind where mine is? 

Selena, 
I’m not sure how to say this,
but when your husband leaves to his job on 63rd,
let’s talk over wine again.