Poem 18

It rings in my ears—a lull, so beautifully indescribable—

I have salt in the crooks of my eyes 

And I am seated at the stool at the end of the bar. 

My ring finger slips, wet, from the beer label. 

Notes sing from your lips—

Clanging harmonica. 

Considerate, your eyes scan the wrinkled, sullen bodies in the jukebox mirror 

And then you land on me. 

I am trapped. 

Old, worn strings, sing of lonesome. 

I can’t look away.