OK, don't call it a date. Say I just happened
to pull into the parking lot. And there you were.
Enough of patriarchy and the vapid
conventionalities that compromise allure.
Call it an accident, an act of God, a freak of nature.
Make it as unofficial as you like. And if I pick up
the check, stop me, make it something you're
doing yourself, as impersonal as this cup.
Maybe it is just "hanging out," something
that could easily dissolve and float away.
There are no meanings here. Just the ping
of dishes in the kitchen. Just another day.
Have it any way you want. My eyes look straight
to where you sit. With them I am having a date.