Emily Alexander

The Bartender

I may be too tall to go out
on a limb. Turquoise tiles are all
the rage these days, and you
standing there and me unchic,
I can't help but fall
apart. You are a stranger harboring
grudges, unique and lucent
suffering, perhaps a collection
of antique oil cans on a windowsill
I don't know I would like
to kiss that face of yours and gallivant
through half a dozen intersections,
your hand in my back pocket. I am down
with the reckless night. I am trying
to be reasonably easy. I am
counting the days
to tourist season to blend in
with the overall aimlessness. All this
and infinite unraveling
across the great plains could be yours,
and we could go there together, a couple
young swashbucklers unconcerned
with the cost of car insurance. If only
I heard the ocean and not a general
roar when I held the shell
to my ear. If I were convivial
and you a celebrated cellist scoring
my every graceless move.

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