Park Date

We’ve been chatting under a balcony
of rain clouds for almost an hour, no one
else around, his head on my shoulder.

Before I can kiss his cheek or neck,
two white guys in baggy jeans and black
baseball caps step into my peripheral.

Smoking blunts, they stop by a small gazebo
and eye us. I try to look away, their faces
too far to describe, but close enough to fear.

I ask my date, Do you know those guys?
And sitting up, he says, I don’t think so.
But when he starts to lower his head back

onto my shoulder, I stand up and say,
Let’s take a walk. Oblivious, he reaches
his hand out for me to hold. I turn to the men.

They move toward us. One says something
to the other. I may be imagining things—
I can barely see their eyes, their mouths.

They’re still facing us. These strangers’ stares
mean everything and nothing—possibly just
a pair of stoners relaxing after work, not thinking

of my date and me. Or perhaps, I can’t stop thinking,
they’re the types of people who think my date
and me deserve to be shot, thrown off rooftops,

tied to fence posts in winter, cold creeping quicker
and quicker into our hearts while our eyes glaze
over with frost, our voices lost on everyone.

Finally, I tell my date, Those men make me feel off.
He lowers his hand, stands up next to me, nods
without hesitation, and for the rest of the date,

we keep our hands to ourselves.