Seeking the Sweet

The couple in front of me in a wooden booth

scoop their lunch up between them as they speak
a language other than my own. My tiny soup cup
is empty. I poor sweetener into my bitter black tea.

The man at the table is momentarily left alone
by his petite companion and he see-saw leans

away from his seat to try to follow her.
A passing employee helps him to lift up and out.
Two men holding hands to share balance,

as if old friends and a cordial
politeness arrives in that minute.

At work a friend is leaving to take another job.
I buy a candle for her as parting gift

from the café’s gift shop. I wonder
what to take down from the shelf

persimmon, moonlit bayberry, or sensuous
narcissus.

When I return to slide into my spot, the couple is gone.

Replaced with a father and a fidgety boy on all fours

under the table exploring for lost rubber bands.
While the man talks without attention on his cell phone.

The earlier afternoon’s conversation with its hushed cadence
lingers. A honeysuckle candle wrapped in turquoise tissue.

My hands rest next to what is missing.

Comments

Grit and Sunlight

What springs up: insistence in this persistent mother of mine (still breathing) Even busy ashes from a rescued urn float up reconstituted as morning dew She unfolds her tendril arms from shadow (shaking just five days ago as if in temporary surrender) (that moment when I am less certain of her longevity) this woman ever present (anyone’s mother) aging when even the most spindly clover of her fragile skin captures the sunrise light like anticipation’s shower blood underneath all humming bird or spores from her heart and in her mouth inhale (frightened) breath exhale grit inhale (certain) breath exhale grit

Open Mic, Cafe Babar

I remember arriving, not the prettiest but appealing to certain bards in the back room, entering through the Castro Valley corner door, walking the postage stamp sized Cinzano bar curated by a man from Detroit who named his establishment after a certain French elephant in a children’s book I arrive with budding consciousness around politically correct solidarity for disheveled neighbors, entering the cigarette lit night rising to tin siding ceiling to floor thumping insistence Bruce and Joie and David and Laura and John, their ash and sweat accumulating as I waited patiently for my place on the crumpled sign-up sheet Today, three decades later, I sit in a Santa Fe gallery named simply Here, and a poet reads to us of roadrunners and a bear and a continuation of the call for preservation of our environment There is an otherworldly hum outside the window of leaded glass The owner sidles up behind me and pushes the frame down to contain what we came to hear I have applied lipstick

A Matter of Travel

Solstice, 2019, for Tracy 1. And cross borders we do often without leaving our houses. Our bodies dream of gardens. Our hands flutter as feeling exits as we press hard against the solid entry door. I type the names of cities. My search reveals rivers, airfares, temperatures in July. 2. Seeking sleep, I am transported through music piped into tiny earbuds. While on an island my father has two seizures in the night. His ten children fly to one another with cautionary fright, typing. Time zones vary from each cell phone exclamation. Two sisters, you and I, raise questions that barely touch down for others but I witness you. 3. By morning we’re assured was merely fainting, and I reconsider change of plans. No emergency to rush to his quiet side. I walk no farther instead to this table for eggs, an English muffin. Arrive inside my individual conclusions. Concern that happiness, once again, is quickly stymied.

As Mourning Doves Persist

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