Trivia Night

I argue that the pungency
of a fried chicken wing
slathered in barbecue sauce
is really the appeal.
The foamy beer of the pitcher
climbs down my throat
into the staying places
of my belly.
We always sit with a view
of his table so I can
awkwardly stare
then pretend to ignore him.

I drag my friends there every
week knowing they know
that the game of trivia
mimics my game with him:
silly, trying to answer
questions I don’t know
that make me feel dumb.

Heather Wyatt

If you have any comments on this poem, Heather Wyatt would be pleased to hear from you.