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Writers and Lawyers by Ava Chin

"All the successful writers are lawyers,"
she says, turning full in her chair.
We nod, we murmur, pouring wine
into glasses, watching our reflections
their gypsy dances as the waiter
clears the table. She fingers a hole larger
than a quarter in her sweater.
Like all good English majors of past and
present we have thought the same.
No more shoe-box kitchens and miniature
lives, peering through comfort like a gated
wall to Gramercy Park. Our parents were the
last to enter the gilded hall, but left the key dangling
a foot from the door, ten paces out of reach.
(It is difficult to concentrate when rent is due.)
"Maybe I should apply to law school,"
she sighs as the candle flickers out
and the check appears like a death wish.
But we are gracious, tipping the waiter
desiring the offer to pay, realizing our purses
too thin. We kiss, we part, fingers wide,
faculties open, folding our papers
our precious books like lost dreams and intangible mantras
sluicing the last of the coffee across our teeth
counting the streetlights to the station
praying to the subway gods at 2nd Avenue.
Angry when they do not come.