On mornings like this, as fog lifts
to reveal the rump of Port Townsend, layers of grey mist
float above the deep melancholy tides of the Salish sea.
I tell you how I hate to cry, then a timer buzzes,
and a newbie angel zips by to clip my wings.
It's the multitudes of small setbacks, so shiny-bright at first,
that plug my atria with plaque. After a decade
of psychedelics and athletic sex, I took the bit.
Years passed without once going to the gym.
Now I'm so full of carriage, I might drag you down
with me. So watch out.
Watch the waitress in me pour cup after cup, while glancing
warily at the man with the menacing stare
idling in the back booth. Imagine her
dead along with seven customers, hiding under this four-top,
taking a final selfie. Watch her offer the shelter of her body
to the baby seated in the highchair banging a spoon,
his baby-laugh so delicious.
