Sometimes at night she lies by the pool until long after midnight,
Warm Merlot in a pink plastic tumbler her tawdry companion,
No IPod, no phone, no way to communicate, and no need
As the tiny stars and huge moon drop as the blackness rises
And the pale clouds curl and roll on the sky’s invisible winds.
On these sullen summer mornings, hours before sunrise,
She traces the names of old lovers across the darkness,
Remembers their kisses and rages, their inevitable sorrows,
The same way she remembers breakfast, tea, or a nap—
Sweet pleasures of the past now fading toward nostalgia.
She’s always stiff when she finally wobbles to her swollen feet
And tries—each night—to recall which door will lead her home.
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