But everything did

Tyler scuffs oak leaves to frisk
the scent walking through Malcolm X Park.
First date. The arms of our jackets
graze, sweet puff of romance. Then boom
I step on a syringe, the needle
quick as a pit viper hits my boot.

If this were a movie, I'd laugh, but I've got
works stuck into my read. "Jesus,
don't touch it," says Tyler, and whips out
his hankie to yank it.

"Please,
I'm fine," but he started to fuss,
hailed a cab, told the hack to drive fast,
got me home, sat me down to examine
The Foot; a scrap of red toe polish
left over from August, skin intact. Then
he held my foot in both hands.

"People say
Nothing Happened when they mean No Sex,
when the fact is every look counts. The sun
quivered in the wind outside whaling
the trees, and shimmered over the wall. When I met
Tyler's eyes in that witchy light, I breathed
off the beat and choked, like I was fourteen.

I used to be depressed all the time,
and romance, by the way, was not the cure.
I don't mind winter because I know
what follows. There are laws.

- Nothing Happened; Belle Waring

(It should be noted that, in genreal, I am not terribly fond of reading (or like) a lot of poetry in the English language, and am exactly the opposite about it in Farsi-- which is the reverse of how I feel about reading (and liking) prose in those same languages. I do like Belle Waring's poems quite a lot, though.)