My last ten buys us the first round, your credit
the second, the third .... You're young. You hold
the liquor well. I'm just turned 40
with little in my stomach. Come 9:40
you stand, drunkenly sign the credit
slip, then high-tail it to a phone. "Hold

on," you're saying, "my wife won't mind I'm out
late" -- not since you're only out with me.
I ponder the naïve nature of this trust
sitting here on this stool I've come to trust.
I'm out as queer. Tonight we're out
together. And are you safe? Are you safe with me?

The bartender doesn't seem to mind
my gay-speak or my smile. So I'd say yes
on that count. I'll confess I just checked out your ass
but like you too much to make an ass
of myself. I hope that you don't mind,
that when you read this we'll still be friends. Yes?