Wisher Loves a Realist Now
She pulls out a skinny cigarette
from her golden case,
lets her blue velvet purse
dangle from her elbow
as she lights the cigarette,
inhales as if relief had come,
resumes conversation
with a man trying
to pick her up,
but she shakes her head, "No,"
and turns her back to him,
her camel coat trimmed in caramel,
various shades of tan,
blending with her long blonde hair
that shines under street lamps
as she goes, high heels clicking
on wet sidewalks.
He watches until she's so distant
he can't distinguish her from others,
turns up his collar,
walks to another pub.
Christmas eve and he's alone.
He listens to a kid pianist
play jazz until close,
finishes a third drink,
saunters home to various music
coming from all-night joints,
making merry with a flask,
and humming for three blocks.
Late night drinks and television
till dawn, he sleeps by six
when all the kids
in his building begin to wander
to their trees, families,
waking again and wishing to be with the girl
with the gold cigarette case.
A Month After
She goes into Lloyd's Bar,
drifts down a smoky stairwell,
takes out her cigarettes,
her red nails glinting in dim lights;
she orders a martini,
sips slowly, a tear falling
before she can stop it,
her delicate fingers streaked
with wet makeup.
Her shimmering blue earrings,
stars in the darkness,
hiding the emptiness
so vast inside her,
the place where doubt grows
as wide as a western sky.
The band begins to play,
and she can barely choke
down her emotions with her drink,
so she leaves to hide
who she is and how she feels,
terrified someone might know
she has faults.
She tips the bartender,
leaves into the lonely night
of darkness that follows
her around. Her ex-husband
made sure she'd hurt
in thousands of ways;
if only she could stand
the wrath of his cruelty
and go on with her life,
a sorrowful piano piece
following her out.
Maybe Tomorrow
He drives past the city
as dusk settles around him,
exits the highway, turns around,
exits again, town central,
neon beckoning him into evening--
drinks, sex, friendship,
yet isolation drives him faster
than his car, and he knows
he wants to shift gears but
knows only the one-way roads
near home. The palm trees
line the streets as if
they knew, they belonged;
scantily dressed women
dancing on corners, glitter
and shine exciting him.
Cat-calls and false dreams
he resists, drives to the next block,
parks, watches a girl watching
a murder; she walks
into deepening night.
Back in drive, he
blows down three blocks,
and flies out of town,
never connecting.
Night grows darker.
He slumps on a stool,
his old neighborhood dive,
haunting himself
with a lack of risk,
drinking his frustrations
back down to his toes:
maybe tomorrow.
Night Fears
She wore a red sequin gown,
skin tight, low cut,
bright as bright can be,
and he dared not notice,
once again, how she
tried to please him
with all the sparkle one
woman could create in a night;
she smoked a cigarette and drank
coffee as if to choke back
the pain of his rejection, again.
She changed into jeans, a blue top,
blue earrings, and packed a bag.
She walked right by him
but he never looked up, never noticed
her slip out into the night
sky filled with glass stars.
Where would she go, she wondered,
as she drove away for the last
leap of faith she held in her heart.
She got on ten, headed straight
out of Florida, climbing to higher
and higher altitudes, the cold
clinging to her unprepared skin.
She'd have to buy a coat soon
to protect her from these icy conditions.
She'd never seen her breath before,
the heat reaching the cold,
mingling into visible vapors.
She stopped for coffee, tears turning
into mascara streaks on her soft face,
blonde hair stringy at her shoulders,
aimlessness in her eyes, fear in her heart.
Still she had to go on;
she had to survive.
Dreams, like Dust
She climbs the stairs
to his place,
the fog following her
through the door
like a dog that wouldn't
stay home. Beaded strings
hang like curtains to replace
missing doors,
swing in multifarious colors
as she goes through;
she pulls on her sweater after,
red as a morning sun;
she pulls on her boots,
looks around--no kiss good-bye,
no sweet words from either side,
so she goes out
into the night, trying to create
a dream for herself
with only fog and dust
to put into the mix.
Days later, he looks for her,
but she's left town,
her own dreams as hollow
as his heart. He wonders
where she could be,
her perfume still on his pillow,
her red sweater soft
in his memory, and this woman
gone like a phantom,
a dream he'll never realize.
Teenage Longings
He misses the ocean,
biking, rollerblading
twists to the sky,
amusement parks,
hookers in purple
mini-skirts, city dirt,
psychics on the street corners,
drug dealers and wall murals,
graffiti and sunshine.
He even misses blood on
the sidewalks, police tape,
his friend's "big brown bomb" car,
his girlfriend's blue eye shadow,
his favorite club. He misses
so much, he almost
forgets to reach out
for comfort, to see
the beautiful mountains
in his new home
as a place for him.
Most of all, he misses
knowing people
and the ocean.
No Return
He still thinks
we're close,
after all the neglect
and ugliness.
I've let go,
for once able
to recognize
the death of a rela-
tionship, for once
not clinging to the vines
tearing away from the home
of two hearts.
Once one's gone,
rejoining is impossible.
Once the waves
have swallowed it,
there is no return.
