I hear the band warming up.
A ‘40s jazz tune is what we need right now.
Think of the bars and cafes we loved,
friends who stood us a drink—
surely some are still living, somewhere.
For every despot,
there must be thousands
of kind-faced nurses
waiting in tents
bandages in hand,
and a mother will kiss
every child’s bloodied knee.
Listen to that wind
trying to find a way in here.
Anticipatory anxiety, it's called.
Your fingers give mine a squeeze.
I'll take that for reassurance,
for calm just before.
Strange, how the street outside has gone quiet.
Want more tonic in your cocktail?
Raise your hand, the flower-sellers
will approach, a smile at the ready.
Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, formerly Honolulu, formerly Snohomish, a small town on a big river in Washington state. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, The Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen, Open Arts, and the late, lamented Fat Damsel Press.
