By Richard J. Fein
"We're not getting anywhere.
All you do is keep on asking
why, why. I've told you again
and again, I wasn't thinking.
What more do you want me to say?
You've got to put it behind you. Look
Sidling out, turning, as if needing
the rest room, I pause
ever so slightly, feign
at righting my balance before
going down the aisle,
shoot my furtive look at the body of the voice
on the cell phone-maybe twenty,
pale, white sweater, white skirt, running shoes,
and staring into the back of my seat
as if her eyes were burning a hole
right through the upholstery
to my antimacassar,
but what I can't keep
from fixing on
is the slab
of elliptic buttons on her lap.