I waited under cover of the moon. I waited there with fifteen jokers, hymnals out of tune, vocalizing of first loves and second tries. I waited for your eyes; I waited for your eyes. Finally you turned and looked my way and you beamed at me as if to say, "Boy, I'm checking off my list of everything I like, and you're this and this and this."

And I questioned for what do I deserve this fate. To whom shall I indebt this honor? I watch as you gesticulate, and call me over.

Finally we speak above the din, and with a twenty-six-year-old heartbreaker's grin you set and launched a thousand pitter-pats. You had me at "Hello" and girl, I'm saying that's quite a feat. A few minutes later and twenty feet away, you were talking to your friends. I tried to catch what you'd say, but I couldn't from the distance of my chair. I watched your fingers in your hair, your fingers in your hair.

And I pondered: would you have given me a second chance if halfway through a high school formal I asked you, "May I have this dance?" at age fourteen in California. I wonder would you have batted eyes to block my gaze although I'd meant well, my loafers low on action on that floor.

On your table there was a pen, and I saw you pick it up again and again; I wondered what you were writing. "I'm in it," I assured Jenn, seated next to me. "I didn't have to make a choice, I just had to use my voice."

I was scared I might've struck you as genteel, but scraping up the tater tots — enough to make a meal — I decided it was best just to forget as I observed you place your bet.

You placed that little bet, and with that lotto pencil multiplied your worth to me in exponentials. So I'll suffer you some boldened pride: believe me, girl, I've got credentials. And if you'll give me half a chance, I promise i won't need a second. (The smoke-fouled cotton of your pants only washing needs, I reckon.)

And maybe we can walk someday to a city park or cemetary where I'll sing a song about the way you first appeared before my gaze.