dusk

It’s dusk
and I’m finally feeling my third beer.
You’re looking at me
without concern,
or maybe you’re not looking at me at all.
Whose stare is it
that I feel so distinctly?

It’s dusk
and you haven’t called —
not that you said you would,
but I’ve been practicing the ability
to inflict my will
upon the Cosmos.
Evidently I’m doing it wrong.

It’s dusk
and I’ve forgotten your name.
On second thought,
I never knew it.
We’ve never met.

It’s dusk
and I’ve given up
looking for fireflies.