Just as we’re licking the last salt from our glasses,
pushing depleted plates away,
she approaches, looking young
and shy, as she extends her arm
with a spotless white cuff
and my Visa card
between two fingers.
She hesitates.
Just give me a little blue to fly toward,
Lord, all I ask is to turn back the hours
to our hotel, miles from here--
Did I grab the good Visa?
or the one we reported
stolen, later found
under a towel
and never unblocked?
It will surely decline to sign for drinks,
dinner, more drinks, tax and tip.
She smiles, uncertainly.
Something crashes in the kitchen.
How far away my home seems, how very far away.
Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle and imagines herself on the shores of Crescent Lake. Her favorite published places are The Fat Girls Review, Pacifica Poetry, the American Journal of Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, and the Rye Whiskey Review.
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