from chimneys. With no stars to brighten the spring skies,
cold and wordless poets meditate about warmer days.
When the storms end and the fruit sets this year,
skunks will mark the air to court and mate in the dark.
As day light lengthens and darkness grows short,
young men in the dingy city bars operate into the night.
The scene drives me to boredom over my Corona,
yet their eager energy will emanate through the stuffy room.
I abandon the restless boys while they search
for a narrow woman in black to sate, until sleep overtakes them.
And behind me, a face glimpsed in the corner of the bar
separates from the crowd, follows fate, beyond the neon lights.
I decide not to follow those hypnotic eyes outdoors,
after my mind stops to evaluate the danger waiting out there
while pollen moves up the hills on skyscraper winds
and finds no one there to irritate with sweetness.
Remembering the young faces in body-warmed North Beach
haunts will lead me to speculate about the cost of warm beer.
Daffodil blooms fall beneath the rain's weight.
It's me the scent will captivate, even overwhelm.
In silence, I'll trace ancient olfactory messages.
It's me the scent will elevate alone into the night.
© Trina Baker, 1996