The Cup

She poured hot coffee over a dash of cream
And watched it surge together like
Storm waters and sand.
She stirred methodically, slowly,
And took a tiny, cautious sip
From the plain, white cup.

She selected a peach from the bin
And gently pressed her fingers
Into its flesh
To ensure that it had a bit of give,
Not too firm to bite, and
Not so soft to bruise.

She sliced the fruit off the stone
With a small paring knife,
And one by one
Placed the wedges in her mouth
As they fell,
Cold and sweet and rife with juice
That rushed into her body
And her blood.

She took another, deeper mouthful
Of coffee,
Yet it had cooled.
She heard a stirring upstairs, and
She sighed.
Spooning some fresh grounds,
She began to brew a new pot,
Drawing his cup from the shelf.

She sat down again at the empty table,
And cradled her cup, now cold, between her palms.

She drank in the last quiet moment of
The day to come.
There was very little coffee left in the jar.
There were no more peaches left in the bin.
There were only a few drops of cream left in the pitcher.

They would drink black coffee
Hot and dark and strong,
Scalding their lips and
Awakening them both from the
Long and roiling night.

Perfect

I would say it was the perfect bar,
Smooth, dark, evenly grained wood
Small, tucked into a quiet corner,'
No music, save the sounds of the street outside the
Window nearby, thick and clean and protective,
Only two stools, high but steady,
Upholstered in dark, skin-soft leather
Bartender dressed in crisp, brilliant white and
Deep, stainless black,
Ready to take our order,
With a slight smile, but no comment.

I would say it was the perfect drink,
Served ice-cold in a tall, slender glass, but
One that curved in at the top, rather than out, so it
Held the liquid intact, as we toasted and sloshed it about,
And retained its icy chill without frozen bits
Interfering with the acrid snap of the liquor,
The hint of citrus tang of the lime,
And the barest kiss of vermouth.

I would say it was the perfect toast,
One with no words,
Just the rims of glasses touched,
For a second,
Eyes looking into each other,
Which is always painful and powerful,
As it uncovers the soul.

I would say it was the perfect kiss,
That followed the toast,
One lasting only a minute or so,
Under the averted gaze of the bartender,
Who pretended not to notice,
Lips warm and soft, not pressing,
Tongue sliding across mine, not engulfing
Mine, and
Just enough, just enough, to make me
Feel that there was more.

I would say it was the perfect night,
Walking out of the little bar, onto the
Bustling street, the busiest street in the world
They say, one where people stroll back and forth and
Back and forth again just because it feels good to move
This way, and to watch and wonder.
We walked up and down,
Your hand touching mine softly, occasionally squeezing,
But not binding, and I felt
Your body press against mine through
The thin fabric of my coat,
Too thin to guard against the sudden breeze that must
Have come from the sea nearby, but
Not so thick that I couldn't feel you.

I would say it was the perfect moment,
But then the night ended,
And your hand let go of mine,
Without a look
Or a kiss
Or a word
And then
It was over
You walked into the darkness of the night,
Looking back for just a second
With eyes that averted mine
Like the embarrassed bartender
Who saw something he felt was not his concern
And you were gone.

I felt the cold breeze that comes from the nearby sea at that moment.
There was nothing but the thin fabric of my coat to protect me and
What was left of a perfect martini and
Nothing else but
The faint, thin promise of something possible,
Possibly unlikely,
Yet perfect,
Yet to come.

Valor of Tequila

He was a cocky man, full of
Pride due to his rank and reputation.
Obligated by prominent friends, he said
He'd give me an hour.
We met for drinks at the trendy bar, all
Black and red, leather and lacquer,
Bustling and brash.
He looked me up and down like you would
A standing lamp in a department store.
I guess I passed the first step, so we
Sat across from each other to make small talk.
Gin and tonics, please.

I probably didn't give a shit one way or the other,
For he was like a million other guys,
All full of himself and not very charming.
But he had all the on-paper attributes that
I knew I was supposed to like, and as he relaxed,
And as the gin did its nasty little tricks, I grew to
Like him well enough.
Our conversation grew more entertaining.
He said he was surprised that I was interesting and
Could talk about sports, so he suggested
That we order food.
Second test passed.

After we ate, he drank more, and became more enthused.
He was having a great time with me, he said.
It was so much more than he expected.
(Obviously my advance PR needed work.)
He wanted more, to do more.
He had seen a famous but shabby club nearby.
One he had always wanted to visit.
I went there often, I said. I was
Surprised he'd never been there.
So we walked over, and up to the bar.

As the band began playing, the bartender
Asked us what we'd like to drink.
I ordered a beer, but my date pounded his fist
And yelled that we must have
Shots of tequila!
Shots!
He said again.

Now, I rarely drink shots of tequila,
Because it's the sort of drink that
Takes you from zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds and
Turns you into a sloppy mess, so
You had better be drinking it with close friends.

This was not one of those situations.

I declined, but my date, angered, drank three shots
In short work.
He began acting like a man who had been
Locked in solitary confinement for twelve years
With only a slit of a window to the outside world
And his meals slid through three times a day,
Suddenly released and unleashed on the world.

He was no longer the buttoned-down and
Buttoned-up attorney at law with a
Receding hairline and oddly wonky smile.
He was a man of power and fire!
In the space of two minutes
He turned into an out-of-control,
Screaming, grabbing, raging nightmare.
And I was his date.

I had the distinct displeasure of pulling
His hands, mouth, fingers, knees, tongue, teeth,
And just about anything else he had at his disposal,
Off me and out of me and away from me,
And wondered how I could make a dash.
His words, once guarded, turned revealing,
But harsh and attacking.
My eyes darted around the crowded room, and
Saw familiar faces that
Avoided mine, buried in assumptions.

The best chance, I felt, since pleading, reason and demands
Did me no good, was to
Suggest more tequila.
He was all for it, and it did the trick.
My trick.
Instead of giving him more valor,
It put him right on his ass.
And into a cab, which I deftly
Avoided, slamming the door on him and
Making my mad dash for freedom.

I saw him the next day, when he invited me to stop by
To meet his dog and see his house.
He lived nearby, in a tidy house full of
Terribly ugly furniture and motel artwork
Inherited from his late grandmother, and
The ugliest dog I have ever seen in my life,
So ugly, in fact, that I gasped when it emerged,
Not being sure what sort of animal it was.

I declined an offer of wine, or beer, or whiskey,
And merely accepted water from the tap,
To his dismay.
I realized that he had no recollection of the events of
The night before, not the poking fingers or the
Neck biting or the bar pounding or the skirt grabbing.
He barely seemed hung over, even.
I was impressed, but still wary,
And I made polite comments
About his house
His furniture
His dog
Nice doggie
And he kept staring at me
With eyes that seemed like a shark's eyes,
Sort of small and bead-like and empty
Or confused.

Once I ran out of niceties, I decided that
There was nothing left in my tank so I
Thanked him for his hospitality and tap water and
He walked me to my car.

As I backed down the winding driveway,
I watched his face, those shark eyes
That stared at me with some emotion that I
Could not place
Either longing or dismay or frustration,
I don't know, and then I
Think I possibly backed over his pansies on the way out,
But instead of stopping to check or to
Make an apology, I admit
I made another dash, put the car in drive and
Got the hell out.

Winter-Warm

Bracing wind stings my skin
Burning light obscured, so
Offers no relief from the cold

Grasses gold, winter-dry and pounded
By scurrying feet, back and forth
Branches bare, stirring as wind threads through

Pounding heart rushes blood
Warms inside, but wobbles
Already unsteady, awkward steps

I stand apart, a length between
To protect myself from the reach
Of the strange energy

Shaking in the cold, I find that
Movement warms me, and
Laughter, unexpected, does too

Footsteps steady, pace quickens
The energy sneaks in a back door
When I am distracted, at ease

Sun emerges for a brief hour
Cheap wine and more laughs
Warm me at last

I sit closer now, open for once
To change, to beginnings, to
The possibility of light

My feet are steady now
The day winds down and the sun retreats
Yet I am winter-warm

He Smelled of Oak Leaves

He smelled of oak leaves
The man beside me at the wide, shiny bar
Perched on a leatherette barstool, one leg
Resting on the floor and the other
Poking out in a pointed V.
There was something vaguely familiar about the
Way he smelled, but somehow,
I could not place it.
And there was another scent about him,
Something sharp and clean and
Chemical.
I could see his teeth as he talked about himself,
His circle, his opinions, his past.
They were the most perfect teeth I had ever seen.
Whiter than polished ivory, straighter than
The borders on a map of Wyoming.
As the row of perfect porcelain kernels
Moved up and down, taunting me a bit
From his raspberry-pink mouth,
I caught a scent of spearmint from his breath,
And it mingled with the muskier fragrance
That hung to his baby-blue mohair sweater and his
Smooth, slender wrists.

He talked and talked, pausing only after a tart,
Targeted question, his eyes boring into mine for a second,
Then darting away.
He heard my answers, I could tell, but wasn't really listening.
He scanned the room, the bustling room, full of people
As carefully arranged and presented as him.

I shifted an inch or so on my barstool, across from this man,
Rather than next to him, I felt, and my mind wandered too,
To another barstool, to another wide, wooden bar, in a city far from here.
An old city by the Pacific Ocean, hot and steamy and tropical,
Where there was a bar on a square, in the oldest part of town.
In the middle of the square there was an ancient tree,
Its wide branches hung heavily with leaves and achingly
Arching toward the ground.
People dashed around the square and into the cafes and shops and bars
Like this one, this bar,
To get out of a violent midday rainstorm,
Or just to pause and enjoy an hour, or two, away from the world.

Inside there were high walls lined with mirrors, and shelves
Stacked with bottles of rums and whiskies and other liquors,
From makers I'd never heard of before, from small, distant countries,
And lush, remote islands where leathery men still knew the secrets
Of extracting fire and sweetness from cane and grain and
Giving it subtle fragrances over time.

There was a man behind this bar, and he was leathery too,
His skin deeply bronze and wrinkled.
He smelled of tobacco leaves,
And a salty hint of sweat, and his eyes were dark and glinty,
As he looked into mine, and took my order.
He reached up to a high shelf, and selected a bottle,
And used his strong, rough hands to mix my drink,
As the rain slashed against the stones of the street
And the tall windows of the bar.
As he squeezed and shook and mixed, scents of
Lime and sugar and white-hot rum came to me,
And mingled with the salt of his sweat, and the
Odor of his tobacco, and the fresh breeze and the
Cleansing rain, and awakened me.

He placed the finished drink in front of me, and looked into my eyes,
Smiling to reveal slightly crooked, slightly yellow teeth, but it was
A smile so kind, welcoming me to sit for an hour or more,
To drink in the afternoon and let it fuel me with its power.
I thanked him with awkwardly spoken words but with a returned smile
That was as honest and pure as his own, and raised the glass to my mouth.
I tasted the strong, fine, sour, sweet and clear flavors that I had smelled
Just moments before, and I knew.

As I remembered this bar, in this faraway old city, in a violent midday rain,
By the ocean, I knew.
Sitting in a wide, shiny room, across from a man with perfect,
Impossibly white teeth, who smelled of breath spray and
Hand sanitizer
And cologne,
Who talked about himself and asked questions that
He already knew the answers to while he
Looked around the room at other people,
I knew.