I’m sorry.

I’m a little distracted,
out of sorts,
sitting across from you
because you’re so pretty
and my stomach is upset
and the guy sitting behind you
has some sort of a facial wart
that appears to be growing
rapidly
even as we speak.

But
I’m sorry.
I want to hear your story
about how your boss doesn’t appreciate you
and how the mail
never seems to come on time.
These are serious problems,
aren’t they?

What?
Oh, god,
I was just thinking:
“try not to stare at her chest,”
which got me staring at your chest
which, based on what I just told you,
is the LAST thing I wanted to do.
And now I have to go to bathroom.

I’m sorry.
This should really be going better,
shouldn’t it?
I should have impressed you more
and spoken of intestinal fortitude less
and spoken of your smile
instead of your vulva, and now I –
I… hadn’t mentioned your vulva before?
But now I have?

Damn!
This sucks. I mean, for you.
I’m having a delightful time.
Can this evening go any worse?
Well, by the looks of his wart
and his wart’s friends
I think I know the answer.