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.