Mistleton and Other Men

beneath the table
his foot,
restless
in its shoe,
reached—

an electric touch,
like an ember
too hot,
sent a shock wave
up the other man’s
spine.

a silence
between glasses
and murmured
chats,
their feet stayed
in their place,
and the gaze lingered,
heavy
as the connection
stretched long.

he thought it was
an invitation,
a thread
spun between them,
gold glinting
in candlelight—

not a careless
step—
a misstep—
beneath the table.

alas, he misstepped, too,
and did what he 
never ought to—
he showed his hand.

next time, 
it’ll be different.

because for him,

there’s

always

a

next

time.

another man,
another foot.