Lisa Loeb is singing
the perfect song
as we sit sipping Mochas
in the back booth
of Starbucks –
neither of us talking –
both of us staring hard
into each other’s eyes –
your foot rubs up against mine
under the table
and you mutter “sorry”
and take a sip of
your coffee
accidentally leaving
a dot of whipped cream
on your upper lip
and I laugh
and you turn a
few shades darker than
a plum
and swipe your
tongue over the
fluffy white stuff
that I so badly
want to reach over
and brush my finger across
because just to touch you
right now
would break the ice
and maybe then you’d say
“thanks” or something
and we could start a real
conversation
and I could actually
go home tonight
and tell my mother
who’ll be waiting patiently
in her favorite armchair
just how great
our first date was.