“With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?”
–Oscar Wilde

Because the bakery—for no
apparent reason—was closed,
because she had overslept
and woken way past the sun’s
appearance, she walked on in
her white sun hat and flowered
sundress to the post office to mail
a package and purchase a thank you
card for a friend, and ended up going
on across the courthouse square
where twin sprinklers fought a never
ending war with summer’s heat
trying to save the grass for which
there was no salvation…

So, she trailed her sadness into
the coffee shop, making certain
that her pale veil of grief made
it through the heavy twin doors,
and she settled at a rustic table
made out of an old paint-chipped
door near the back, away from
the a/c’s frigid breath, an infant
crying its great unhappiness, and
she ordered a house chai because
it would be spicy-sweet and warm,
and a toasted bagel because it
would be crispy and buttered,
both of which reminded her of
her mother who had died but
not gone to heaven, of that she
was certain because surely there
was no salvation for either of them.

With poetry and notebooks open,
with fresh flowers in a canning jar,
with her own freedom to come
and go, leave or stay, remain for
long hours or just go on home,
she waited mid-bite for the pain
of simply swallowing to go away,
and that’s when a petite woman,
a stranger, climbed the steps up
onto the stage, opened the cover
on the upright piano and began to
play, easily, brightly, without fear,
and the notes spilled outward like
moonlight from behind storm clouds,
and the agony of trying to stay alive
rose up and walked out the door,
leaving her alone with herself,
her forgotten, breathless happiness.