When A Client No-Shows

I write poetry.


(a poem for WW)


Having abandoned the drink, she glides

like a water fowl flying close

to the glassy brim of sea-

Close but not quite ready to dive,

Not ready to puncture the surface,

Talons outstretched, unblinking eyes

on a thing that moves below, beneath.

Not yet, but close.


Alliances made on full moons

could be tossed about, stuffed in corners

of an unknown flat—where

a coffee table is dinged with shark fins, where

Barrel-aged bourbon rings are no rival to the mask of



The question

What does the heart need, in the end?

Lingers on


Are the necklaces of ritual

still powerful if they sit still in

a bathroom drawer?

Or is it the body that moves

Beneath that brings sanctity to the

pews, the tent, the peasants and

Cake-eaters alike?


Sometimes, just for fun, a tutu finds

itself around my waist. I smooth down

the crinkled lace, feeling the patterned holes,

and ask myself if I can really dance.

The wind lifts the edges of the hem

and a lean calf flexes in the chill

And I know I may have outlasted the child

But never, ever the dream.

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