Trish Saunders

Drinking Alone

Is bad for you according to my therapist,

but she’s one to talk, I saw her

addressing the mirror 

in the Virginia Inn 

And when I approached, 

she first pretended

not to recognize me, 

then demanded I buy

the next round, 

since I owe her so much 

money and sanity.  

I know desperation when I see it on 

a rhinestone bracelet

shaking on a bony wrist, 

so I am okay with it all.

But if I was a lonely Seattle dove,

I would stuff myself with beignets

then vomit gently over her diamond

shoes strutting down First Avenue in the sun, 

the sublimely rare, too-hot Seattle sunshine.  

 

STILL LOVED BY THE SUN

I didn’t mind a huge arm thrusting me out the door, 

he was cute, in a brutish sort of way,

but grey asphalt bowing low, murmuring 

welcome back—

that knocks the heart out of you.

(Yes, I’m still capable of shame.)  

Never mind, usually lots of legroom

here against the wall,

newspapers and bags,

the few empties I find,

make a good seat cushion

if your butt isn’t too bony

That big yellow sun shines as radiantly for you, for me,

as it does for the guards, for ICE. 

When it’s too hot for them, 

we are gently held. 

We are loved by the sun. 

We don’t feel

extreme heat, 

only cold,

which, God help me, seems to become

more unforgiving with every passing year.