She's twenty-something, queer, and mixing drinks.
Her name is Cleo. I recall the Sphinx.
She brings the fizzy stuff “with minimal ice”
before I even ask for it! How nice!

Her hair is sometimes purple, sometimes blue.
Her chin’s bar-level. Only five foot two.
Behind her glasses is a thoughtful face
with brown eyes and a smile of awkward grace.

One TV shows a prominent buffoon—
another has the Sox (third place this June).
She takes my order for a pasta lunch:
I can't explain it; I like her a bunch.

Outside, the sun shines bright on Porter Square:
I study the stray fringes of her hair.
I drink club soda, not Canadian Club.
Should I be sitting in a Cambridge pub?

She's got her B.A.—on to graduate school!
Her roommate's nice; her best friend is a tool.
We chat like buddies as she slices lime,
Cleo and I, whiling away the time.