She rinses her face and smooths her hair. The street
comes to life, the smells of morning from the coffee bar.
Grab your ankles, press your forehead to your knees.
I used to be able to slide a raised leg along the barre.
Sometimes I’m seized with a longing for what I don’t know.
They indulge me when I sit in the dark at the local bar.
Just when she thought she’d cleared the tests, they called
her back. Don’t you know they’re always raising the bar?
His voice on the phone, now husky with age— how long
since he whispered in my ear in a college bar?
Thirteen cattail heads in the shallows, like swizzle sticks;
water clear as vodka— You’d think this was a poetry bar.
A couple wanders in; a blinged-out dude in cowboy boots. The street
philosopher, red-lipsticked waitress. All this in one night, in a bar.
The days are getting longer. Soon we can sit on the deck, drinks
in hand, watching the sun torch sheets of water beyond the sandbar.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.