“sorry, I’m so sorry, but do you mind if I put the milk away?”

I like to muse, there’s
a polished reserve of
serrated kitchen knives
slotted neatly inside
the leg of your pink jeans
you have an anecdote so criminal
that everyone at the party
has to laugh forcefully
into their beers
hiding their secret terror
at your misdoings
but for now, the people sigh again
at your nervous giggles and
your paranoia at offending them
I think
if pushed a notch too hard
you would dissolve into an
all-American puddle