Wednesday, May 22, 2019

This Last Weekend

This last weekend
–Saturday—
One day, one day only, one day in the face
Of the myth of the familiar flood of which
One meteorologist can tell you with magenta smears
Deep in the yellow and red blobs of projected rainfall
This! Magenta danger!
Turned out to be gray, windy; rain skips welcome
In the stifle, a brief watering for wilting participants.

What was I saying?
Oh, yes—Saturday...

This has become our yearly place.
With our small, local sci fi convention now defunct
Our anniversaries wear threadbare
For the lack of hotel parking lots giving onto fields
Full of bunny eyes in the twilight,
Rooms of authors and books and astronauts
And that one child in a dragon costume who cornered my husband
Who is not used to children but does like dragons, stories...
These threadbare anniversaries when we have to count years
That billow behind us like paper bags,
Skimming the lives of our families, 
Unanchored, save by anecdote...

This Saturday—
I’m getting to it. The books, the local authors
One day only, the day when the gatekeepers can stay on their shelves
In Barnes & Noble, near the puzzles and children’s toys
One day when we could poke around and he could say
“Be careful, you know you’re naïve when it comes
To hope…”

Only, this Saturday, I was there with other writers
And this was a first, a new anniversary, a book of poetry.
I was the rabbit in the field whose eyes were caught
A first-timer, a this-side-of-the-fence lurker.
Dragons in paper bags ballooning above us
As if emptiness was treasure.

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