8 of 31. Noon on a Sunday on Avenue A

I write back the throat of you
while Etta James wants

what every woman wants.
The books are open,
tea is gone.

My fingers are just remembering
the bare wood railing,
your stoop on Steinway,

and the last time I drank
like it didn’t hurt.
The photographer in Brooklyn

told me about the cabbies
last night. How their hands
were so beautiful,

a story all their own.
I couldn’t disagree or stop
eating the apples that were
in front of me.

Swallowing someone else’s
smoke rings I asked
what it was like to work
where they want all your

attention. Brick wall and garden
lit by white christmas lights.
Conversation moved as
a symphony, he turned to her

and she to me. The neighbors
lights went out, agitato.
Crescendo of laughter
followed by diminuendo

we listened to her strange
recounting of love or something
like it, and the mystery of
wanting.

The party picked up as we left,
walked down Marcy toward
Metropolitan,
then took the J train home.

Today, little things write
themselves back into my work,
next to an empty cup of tea.

I notice the sun is warm
for October

while Etta
sings the blues.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, fall, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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