Barista not actually flirting with you, VI

A poem, cut, paste, and reformed from Mark Doty's "1981"

I don't remember who bought who drinks
Or why I liked him; I think it was simply that I could
I was wrong about so much: him,
my prospects, the charm of the gift.
Out of context, it was a cool

lumpish thing, earth toned, lop-sided
incapable of standing on its own.

I called him more than twice

If I knew where he was, even
his last name...I might call again
to apologize for my naive

persistence, my lack of etiquette,
my ignorance of the austere code of tricks.

I thought of course we'd go on learning
the fit of chest to chest, curve to curve.
I didn't understand the ethos, the drama of the search,
the studied approach to touch
as brief and reckless enjambed

...Nothing was promised, nothing sustained

or lethal offered. I wish I'd kept the heart.
Even the emblem of our own embarrasment
become acceptable to us, after a while,
evidence of someone we'd have wished to erase:
a pottery heart.