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A poem I wrote, recently published in the Northern Virginia magazine Calliope.
POWDER
Dirty little stairwell for a dirty little—I
sit atop looking down on
the dust and the drinks
littered across faded tiles—record
plays dim, lets surface noise surface
over quiet melodies. Shades drawn
shut—no trickle of light to
slip in and play over the smudged glasses
the bartender sullenly wipes clean. I trace the wood
of the stairs with a finger
tip and feel the splinters sink in—if
you let yourself step inside from off the streets maybe we’d get
lucky and I’d sweep you off your feet
for a dance—for a moment—but
I’ve never been one to dance.
Boys hold their girls tight—tuck them into
coats to keep them young—the crowds,
if you could name them such, begin
to seep through the cracks of
the door—filling tables and time—I remain
atop the stairs, distant yet
enticed—enthralled by the walls, the way
his jacket collar brushes so slightly
against his chin; the way her pretty
little eyes fixate on her
drink before darting so faithfully
back to his lips. If I could touch such
a world the pressure on my palms
would be enough to kill—to
leave me behind glass
once again as such is the role
God would have written for me
if He had any say.
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