We have the same knuckles,
flick of the wrist
as we tip edges of
coffee mugs to our
lips in diner windows.
His headphones whisper Otis Redding,
quiet love songs,
mine shout The Doors until I forget the name of this and other places;
these distractions seem unending
they keep us daily
in red plastic booths, cups kept full
lipstick pressed on the rim of mine.