With a Bottle of your Company

You energize the aggregate
with a bottle of your company,
poured sideways, chew first
so they don’t breathe in the bubbles,
but they’ll love it, oh they’ll
love it.

You walked into the room,
and conversations fell
flat,
the standing fellows
sat,
and I watched proud
while you awkwardly
put down your coat
and gave them the finger
by eating a Caesar salad
you hadn’t even paid for.

They were older men and women,
all prudish divines with tempers
saltier than brine and stronger
than fox-urine whiskey,
and they asked you your name,
your occupation,
your religious affiliation,
your political fixation.

“What the hell is this?”
you asked,
“An orange juice convention?
You just want to
squeeze everything out of me
before I’m thrown away?”

I’m not sure if you really said that,
but it seemed to fit.
Instead, you answered politely
with charmingly macabre answers
that ripped shivers through
old women seams.

It was only after one of the men
glared at me
that you realized where I was,
that you spotted the empty chair
to my right,
and you awkwardly grabbed your coat
again to wrap it around my shoulders
to twinkle menacingly next to me
holding my fingers underneath the table.
“They’re all assholes,” you loudly whisper.

And I nod, smiling,
your bubbles too much for my odd relatives,
your demeanor too much like
a pushmower of razor blades;

but you energize me, husband,
and I love it.