I love the way you run your fingers
through your hair, lean back
in your chair and drink tea
out of a Mason jar. I find
the way you can’t sit still endearing,
the way you tap your pen, gesture,
talk about idiots, cussing nonchalantly.
Step it up a notch: I might even adore you.
But please, don’t use the “T” word.
You know what I mean.
“Trust” isn’t something I lend
like a new book you know damn well
will never be returned. It isn’t something
I save on my shelf, waiting to give away.
It’s more like a person I don’t want to introduce.
You could try to find and kidnap him,
but that’s not how trust works. And besides,
there’s no way you can catch him:
Trust wears nondescript, gray blazers,
cuts his hair short, shines his shoes,
but not enough to draw attention.
He sits quietly in a cafe, sipping a latte,
looks at a laptop screen, pretending
there’s something interesting there.
He does not talk. He is a quiet observer,
an avid eavesdropper, an undercover agent.
Trust doesn’t go home to the wife and kids,
nor does he have a lover.
Trust travels alone.
Do I want to shower with you?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Katherine Gotthardt, copyright 2016