Stranded in D.C.

In Borders Bookstore at 18th and L,
a man started talking to me inexplicably
about power, networking, and weapons of mass destruction.
About endgames and think tanks
and heads that will roll.
He sneered a lot and was emphatic,
also suspicious, looking slyly out of the corners of his eyes
at our fellow bookstore-coffee-drinkers
as if they were staked out to hear his insights on Hussein's master plan
and the importance of nurturing relationships
with people in power.
He talked and talked
and I got to wondering if this powerful man was lonely,
if this would be his most sincere interaction of the day,
if he considered himself benevolent for talking to me:
a girl clearly powerless and maybe a bit naive.

I left and got on a train
where I stood facing a man,
stern and upright in a gray skimmer,
who was holding a book on pragmatism
and appraising me pragmatically
as I appraised him poetically,
unapologetically.

After that I bought a bottle of Australian wine
and walked back to my hotel,
thinking about race, power, and pragmatism,
poetry and networking,
public transportation and different words for hats.

Thursday night jazz

I showed up just in time to hear the lingering end
of a jazz song
then watch the musicians drift barwards,
where they clump in their berets and nice watches
and smile at the pretty girls,
of which I am not one tonight.
I'm in black and glasses,
my hair long and straight,
looking out through eyes like cinders:
lonely.

I have a glass of wine,
good for swirling between ideas.

You terrify me,
make me fragile:
a daisy snapped in half,
a punctured balloon.
Which is ironic considering
how I flayed you,
took almost everything and can't keep
from coming back for the rest.

I'm operating on blind faith these days,
tapping the walls
and listening for echoes.

The jazz band is back.
The guitarist is gyrating all over
his inspired notes and the bassist
is holding uncannily still,
startlingly still.
The drummer looks out the window
like he's waiting for a woman:
expectant but affecting distraction.
I'm stroking the stem of my wine glass
and thinking about how our love
devolved into terror.

I like the compostion of rooms:
how people will choose to array themselves,
the spaces they leave,
the small, precise spots they take up.
I like women's hair.

Almost done with my wine;
how will the night unwind?
It'll devolve into something stark
and Norwegian: a drive,
an undressing, a puritanical sleep.
Give me 2 more minutes of this dimness:
my wine glass refracting candle light
and the drummer finally paying attention.
Give me 1 more minute.
Ok,
just give me this song.

zero gravity

I think I finally figured out why
we can't leave
each other alone.

You're the moon to my sun
and without me
you orbit in darkness.

And without you
how do I know
who I am?