Peter Kline

The Argument

The engine ticks and cools.
The windows gauze with breath.
At last, around us both
a rueful silence swells.

We seem like lovers here.
Not quite. We share a thing
for itching and for scratching.
Say more and go too far.

It’s not just our shit luck
this trifling costs so dearly.
To many penny cherries
make any stomach sick.

You think I’m weakening;
I’m sure that it won’t fit.
If both of us are right
then one of us is wrong.