Morrison Steel, Gary Buhler
After Traveling
The smell of everything opening with a clean yawn,
arriving in St. Paul,
and we find ourselves honeymooning
down the street from our apartment
where the cat stands crooked
inside the window, waiting
for another sparrow.
The septic restaurant floor
reminds me of our Indian hostel
or is it just the curry we’ve ordered
floating on blue plates
switched with the palate
of the sky.
But that smell … is it the leftover
scent of the mop bucket
scrapping the floor after hours,
the tall maitre d’ bent after his suds,
or am I remembering an earlier future
hovering outside, unchecked now
with the thaw taking the river
apart in heaving chucks.
The whole thing just letting go.
___________
Jolene Brink