At a park concert, I turn—tanned
and buzzed—and almost collide with some
man’s phone, his voice behind it commanding
let me get a picture, I love your mustache.
And before he goes ahead
and does it
I go nah, not right now
and laugh, not
because I don’t mean it,
but because the tunes are good
and the mood’s right
and I forget, for the moment—
startled, netted in his lens—
that to some, a no can taste like a yes
if it’s sweetened,
that sometimes a no is like kiwi,
which can taste like any other fruit,
my father used to say,
if you think of that fruit
before you bite.
