Dear Friday

Dear Friday

Dear Friday,
I’m writing to say that if I walked into your room
and all my senses were filled,
I could swear it was the first day of summer and not the last.
I smell jasmine and orange, hear jazz and motorhomes
escaping to the lake.
Nearby someone served up strawberries in chocolate,
the boys next door are shooting hoops like they meant it,
sage reminds me of the long days with native friends
just south of Canada. I’m writing to say
that
though joy is bubbling through every sense
there remains this ache,
this loss,
this wince where time has taken its
best shot at my chest.
I want to walk to a downtown with neon signs
that have letters missing.
I want to find a bar where no one knows me and
treats me like a guest.
I’d prefer, to be honest, the company of all the
rest that are too far by geography,
too distant by time,
too removed from my simple misunderstandings of
living ahead of the clock and
behind the calendar that dates my appointments with
no one in particular.

Still, I will sit on my deck this afternoon, start in the
sun
and
end in the shade.
My playlist keeps me company, my chihuahua licks
my fingers before warning the Huskie next door about
wandering too close to her terrain. Not to worry, though,
it is all enclosed by ranch fence. She finally settles in
her favorite corner in the sun.