Stew: A Poem

Didn’t I see you yesterday
out on the Mexican Battle Grounds?
Smoking your cherry wood pipe, its cherry
the only color in the Third Quarter Moonlight?

Or was it Coffee Pot Landing
last week? drinking iced Dragonwell tea,
Basking in the fireball sky
lying in the dew-sweet martian grass
in tie and suit?

I don’t know… Was it even you?
You have one of those faces; you know,
Unkempt blonde hair, lightly darked skin,
Italy eyes, a 3-Days Grown beard,
oaken-wood bark?

It was at the Laundromat, wasn’t it?
Down on Third Street and Vine?
You were bleaching your whites,
Listening to tribal drums and didgeridoos
while my tights hung to dry?

I ate at The Coachman Tuesday.
Got a french dip and a side of fries.
Had their rhubarb pie for dessert.
Maybe you were the one counter-side
Asked for toast on rye?

I feel like you are everyone,
but I’ve never seen you until now.
Odd to think that you have a name, friends,
A yellow lab named Bogey, two fish–
Perhaps a white cat?

I don’t know. It’s not my place to.
I don’t know you.
I’m just making this up as I go.

Maybe you don’t have pets.
Maybe you like plants. You grow cabbage
for your special stew?

I remember now! It was the laundromat!
I needed sixty more cents to dry.
You were ironing your Levi’s
when you saw I needed money,
and you gave me a five.

Told you I’d pay you back. Thanks.
My skirts thank you, too.
Perhaps I’ll see you again soon?
I heard the Coachman was serving cabbage stew.

© 2010 Claire Fiori

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