Shots

She held my hand and led me from the floor
of her favorite bar, crowded with lights, music,
and people. Back at the table her green eyes
found mine. She hesitated a moment.

“Will you do a shot with me?”

I said that I would. I stood to play pool.
Mid-game I paused to drink with her,
two smooth shots, Irish cream floating
on clear butterscotch. The raised glass gleamed,
and slammed back onto the table.

Heading for Omaha this afternoon, I pass
her place and she slips into my mind.
Nothing much, just that we were doing shots.