Salt Water

I choose not to get a tissue
when the tear slides around
that apostrophe curve of her nostril.

I maintain my body languange
from before her eyes started leaking
my arms crossed high-
covering cold, vulnerable nipples.

In moments like these I like to touch things-
fold, unfold napkins
crumple cough drop wrappers
strangle my fingertip with the bread tie.

In my head I keep score of spoken low blows
and wish my dining room had a chalk board
like the one in the basement by the pool table.
Many more games are played up here.

I once went to a kid-friendly restaurant,
sat at a black slate table on which toddlers
could scribble while they waited
for grilled cheese sandwiches.
I wish we had one in green.
We could wipe it clean
with the water from her eyes.