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A vernissage beer turned into
Two ‘let’s meet for a drink’ beers.
Which led to another beer with dinner.
And then I met up with some friends.
Big guys, buying round after round.
By the end of the night I was a full bottle behind.
In the morning I found a steak knife in my purse.
I guess we went to a restaurant after.
At least the knife was clean.
. . . . .

I dreamt of gunfights. Not Wild Western ones.
More gentlemanly, more strategic. Duels.

I was a second in a fight to the death.
But I wandered off to shop for belts.

Not gentlemanly at all of me.
The belts were Western ones.
. . . . .

I have been writing grant applications.
Descriptions of projects in far off countries.
Summer in the States, winter in Warsaw.
I wish those two were the other way around.
. . . . .

Today I wore a wool blazer instead of a coat.
My coat is a hand-me-down, the ex of an ex.
The blazer is a hand-me-down too,
but it at least, was hand tailored.

I walked ten blocks in un-broken-in boots.
I wore jeans so new they dyed my legs blue.
My first pair of new jeans this millennium.
I bought my last pair of new boots in 1996.

It’s not like I came into money or anything.
I had to take a temp job so I could pay for it all.
And not because I was tired of the old stuff either.
All at once everything I owned wore equally thin.
. . . . .

The first day of spring,
and it looks like it too.
Fresh footprints in the backyard snow.
A bird or two in the bare branches.
The heater’s turned down to medium.
The laundry’s hanging out on the line.
. . . . .

A morning of metaphoric dreams.
Saw people I hadn’t seen in ages.
They were themselves, but more so.
I helped a self-absorbed friend set up –
she was late for her own vernissage.
A nomadic friend and I forded a river –
she was living in a field. Next door:
A minimalist friend turned antique dealer.
Ray Charles bought a plate from her.
Her prices were high and I wondered:
Where had she been hiding all that stuff?
Then I reviewed the dream for usability,
cross-browser, cross-platform compatibility.
Disappointed with IE for Macintosh, I woke up.
. . . . .

The dog paces the apartment.
Toenails clicking he whines at the door.
He knows there’s no one there.
He wants the pool of sun in the landing.
. . . . .

Took a one ticket bus tour:
Cote Sainte-Catherine
to Cote des Neiges,
Sainte-Catherine to Parc.
Met a surgeon, went to the library,
Bought two pairs of jeans,
three used books, soap,
dish soap, and cotton balls.
All my errands in on afternoon,
but did them round about,
because it’s sunny out.
. . . . .

I went out yesterday, because everyone said it was spring-like.
The alleyways were full of slush but the dog shit hadn’t melted yet.
Wind wore through my thin spring-like scarf, and I forgot my gloves.
My hands turned raw-red carrying the too-heavy grocery bags home.
Maybe when everyone says summer-like it will really feel like spring.
. . . . .

The birthday girl had her breasts taped
into a brand new sky-blue backless number.
Everyone just wanted to be near her.
Two film-set fans blew across the dance floor:
a writhing wind tunnel of Charlie’s Angels hair.
I saw a guy I used to know, semi-Biblically,
(Psalms? Sticky palms. We were on our knees anyway).
The girls got good and sweaty, and stuck together.
The guys circled, watched, and got (almost) nothing.
And at the end of the night the birthday girl said:
Really, I couldn’t have asked for more.
. . . . .