He’s a reflection of God, Boston shaker
in hand. He pours a pulse of Malibu pineapple
into frigid glass with dovelike precision.
Obsidian eyes, hands that know how to hold
a pool stick, a joint, my flushed face.
The whole world outside this bar sighs.
One day it will be licked clean with cobalt fire
and no one knows exactly when. No one
knows anything – but Cole knows light
ice and small talk. I wait patiently. I drink.