From Trader Joe’s to at least 30,000 feet!

He was a handsome young artist, good face at the cash register,

but his expression was like the black and white screen 

still playing summer sitcom reruns from the 60s in an apartment 

complex behind the dumpsters of the empty Holiday Inn

miles from anything in the middle of Kansas and nobody on holiday.

( But hang on, this isn't over. )

The way you knew he was an artist was the faded-out haystack 

yellow T-shirt that said VAN GOGH on the front 

Fuck Thomas Kinkade on the back, 

and the other way I knew he was an artist was how he packed 

my grocery bag; blueberries and meat in juicy Rothko layers. 

He looked up and I looked right at him, 

young blue eyes meeting old blue eyes 

blissing out all the women in line so I said, 

I can see you’re an artist by the way you bag it all up. 

The composition of fruits and meats and sugar treats, 

all that wine and cheese straight off to the vanishing point. 

We could all see how my saying this affected him. 

He needed to hear it, I needed to say it, we both needed to believe it. 

(I had that job once, but at a Safeway, nothing happening. Yet.) 

He brightened up and lightened up, got straight up, sky-high!

Not drugged-out high, but drug-up high, way up there

riding one of those ridiculously high, fluffy clouds

way up HIGH, free and FLUFFY Ansel Adams clouds,

Ansel Adams along as his wingman, 

Georgia O’Keefe was there too, their wingwoman! 

I’m not on the payroll, but 

everything happens at Trader Joe’s. 

Cold towels, warming in the moonlight 

The sky was starry deep velvet blue last night 

and I couldn’t stop staring at it while I waited for 

the washing machine to stop with a beep,

my favorite towels going round and around in there!

The very towels I ran away from home with (I’d asked Santa for them) 

so many Christmas mornings ago, stealing them (and no family photos)

out from under the tree the Christmas Eve before, 

running off through the night in the snow leaving tracks, but running so fast! 

The machine stopped so I hung the towels out on the line 

in the wee hours—3o icy degrees or less—blowing softly and seductively 

in the moonlight, making me think of old romantic movies from the 40s,

home for the holidays in the movie, and a lot of soft-focus kissing!

But last night ... 

Outside on the line, under the wide blue midnight yonder, there they were, 

my strong, soft-piled towels blowing flagrantly, so fragrantly alluring 

in sage, the other one in the ethereal shade of Christopher Blue 

well known at Bloomingdale’s and Home Depot paint departments all over.

I couldn’t get enough, I would’ve been out there all night under the stars,

but the lights all went out in the house next door

making the moonlight glowing on my towels so much more pronounced.  

There were earthy, moist footsteps in the dark

furtive knocks on my festive front door

it was the Apache couple from next door, 

silvery-wise, wide-smile lovers, Just Married! both of them 

with beautiful brown eyes like warm acorns in low tallow candlelight. 

Their monthly checks hadn’t come in the mail, why the power went off,

it was dark, cold, scary in their place, and though they still looked real ready 

for some sort of soft focus something

they wondered if they could come in and use the bath? 

I ushered them in just like the usher which (of course) I used to be, 

pulled the red velvet curtains open to the screening room (front room) 

and suggested why not take showers in the morning because 

the best towels were outside, cold and wet, drying in the moonlight.

But yes, come in, I told them—we’ve got robes, popcorn, pillows, 

Prosecco, Pabst, and Perrier for one of us,

we can watch a great hopeful, romantic movie starring 

Bing Crosby and Emma Stone as poor people in love 

getting over on rich people

like they always do. Always ... in the end. 

 The Apaches hopped over the back of the couch, bounced high up

off the cushions, said: Oh yes, we've heard of that one, we're ready!

I got them in robes, stocking feet floating up by the fire, eyes shining 

in the flames and the movie screen—they melted into each other; 

after awhile, round red, green flannel bodies rolling off the couch, 

crawling, kissing, giggling, they rolled down the hall to the guest room. 

So Happy Honeymoon, anyway! 

This morning, pancakes and bacon and coffee, wide awake, smoking 

in the hot Lodge pan (yes, the coffee too!), the Apache lovers 

take a shower, together, of course, bright happy newlyweds, 

while outside the towels hang flapping in the breeze,

waiting for them

warm and fluffy in the morning sunlight. 

And, this morning, through my kitchen window, I can see their place, 

looks like an interesting cave; a dog just jumped in their bedroom window, 

a raven is perched on a bicycle seat on the front porch, I see cave paintings 

and I have boxes and boxes of tallow candles. 

Those fuckers can’t really turn off your power.