One Night In A Big City, Not My Own By Trish Saunders

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.