The Wind Chime

The drapes—as sheer as ghosts—
flutter and gently sway in time
to the soft xylophonic chime
of wind-conducted toasts.

They clink like crystal has—
in instances where glasses meet—
percussively obliged a beat
as if performing jazz.

The wind-chime, though, emits
a slow concerto of its own
to please the girl who sits alone
and, while she listens, knits

and hums a southern tune,
a soloist whose only band
is six thin tubes of metal and
a breezy afternoon.

January: 2008

Last Call

Her vodka-laced pronouncements stung
my eyes with breath of Russian fire;
the words escaped, and, as they hung
aloft, they spread and drifted higher.

I watched them hover overhead
like bubbles from a comic strip,
containing all the words she said,
each barb presented as a quip;

but comments with a crooked smile
ring true when mixed with alcohol.
A spirit (with a splash of bile)
is deadly when the glass is tall.

November:2007