Daniel Fitzgerald


Daniel Fitzgerald

Looking at the half empty beer, warming itself in summer.
Your glass empty, standing ready to go.
Touched the small of your back, you were off — a gunshot.
I’m faster than you, but I should’ve let you win.
Leaving behind a bar named after a woman I used to sext,
I caught you — very nearly perfect people.
You let me stay, bitching about the movement of time and your mother.
I’m terrible at summer flings — why don’t you move in?

Uncomfortable at the front, too reserved to bring up the back.
Could’ve asked, but I trusted that smile.
Film historical, hold it up; block our view.
It’s something we’ll encounter soon enough.
Come at me, full of barley and hops; first impressions don’t really matter that much anyway.
I’m strong enough to go alone, but I prefer patios with your hand.
When you see me cry, you feel it.
You’re not an awful person—just play one on the TV you refuse to get rid of.

Dizzy and wounded, we carry on your circular reasoning.
Somehow this will make sence. That’s what you say.
You spell it wrong in your speech because you want a way out.
A loophole, an escape hatch, somewhere your own.
In the morning, I’ll resist the urge to call — late at night I won’t be so strong or lucky.
What might have been lost isn’t worth what I gave up.
You told me to let you go that night.
Now years later, I tell it back to you verbatim.

Some days my pain is for us, other days it’s for me.
But most days, it’s for that unfinished beer in the sun — I think I would’ve enjoyed it.