It’s Saturday again and soon the streets
of Old Town will be littered with lovers.
The autumn air will thicken with sugary
coffees, cream sauces, and seared meats
drawing out the lacquer-eyed couples.
Their palms weaving tightly together
like a loom, they will limbo under string
lights: entire scene awash in wanting.
South of Union Avenue, my telephone
only reflects back the same indifferent
blackness as the September sky. Full of
pinot and bored with staring at the long
shadow engraved on the dinner chair
opposite mine, I trick my body early
into its usual flannel and solid cotton.
Desperate for something to hold,
I raise my sleepy window shade and
a dollop of stars show themselves.
I imagine the constellation as arms, whole
galaxies coalesced, ready to embrace.
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