dinner for one

you scared the shit out of me, knocking
on my back door like that while i washed dishes
at the sink in my ratty camo boxers
and sipped discount boxed chablis,
looking out the window at the black december night
which falls so early
that i undress for bed before i make dinner for one.

no one else comes in my back door but you,
so when i didn't bother with clothes or modesty,
i saw your eyes narrow and wonder if anyone else
comes in my back door
since i tossed you out the front one.

because i would rather be miserable
even in my threadbare underwear
than cause conflict,
i let you in and you stood with december behind you
and me in front.

your eyes drank in the wine and the boxers and the exhaustion
and knew it was more than politeness.

i guess you were watching me through the window
down the shitty wine and pour a second glass
and adjust my balls and stroke them
while i wished for clarity.

while you fucked me bent over the kitchen counter
for the last time,
my only regret was the chablis standing between me
and remembrance
of whether i was crying while i looked out at the night.