• Listing ID: 36034
• Poetry Author's Name: poetraniel
• Poem: We always said we'd try the oyster bar off the pier,
  the one lit with wine bottles hung from driftwood,
  a menu scratched daily on mirror glass.
  We never made it. But I think about it now
  whenever I see couples share a small plate,
  two forks, same slow rhythm, heads tilted inward.
  Last week, I ate there alone. The server asked,
  “Just one?” like she couldn’t believe it. I said,
  “Someone may join me,” though I didn’t mean you.
  Still, I chose table nine, the one nearest the ledge
  where pelicans hover like drunks in slow descent.
  They served oysters on a slab of marble,
  lemon curled like a secret beside the shells.
  I tried the first, too briny, too alive.
  You’d have teased me for not swallowing it whole.
  Instead, I sipped wine too slowly,
  wrote something on the paper napkin
  about mollusks and missed connections.
  A guitarist came by, offered to play anything
  but couldn’t read the room. Played Something by The Beatles.
  I thought about the way you hummed that song
  when you cooked. The way you said
  relationships are made of "appetizers and exit doors."
  And then, without realizing, I was smiling,
  as if you'd walked in, just late,
  buttoning your shirt with a crooked grin,
  saying, “Sorry, got lost—again.”
  And the server, seeing me look up,
  asked if I was ready for the check.
  I almost said, “No. He’ll be here.”
  But I didn’t. I just folded the napkin,
  tip included, and walked out
  past the couple at table nine,
  forks still clinking in tandem.

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