I look forward to the evening sun going down By Trish Saunders

One day I will have very little money, less than now.

I’ll live in a small kitchenette.

I won’t care.

My grandmother says all that to me one evening,

without warning.

We are standing together in the French Quarter, drinks in hand

as a setting sun explodes over the square 

and jazz, blues, ragtime are blowing somewhere.

My grandmother Julia and I are drinking Black Manhattans.

She takes my arm. I know she has more to tell me.

As hard as I try, I can’t remember if I consoled her,

laughed with her, or said nothing at all.

 

Trish Saunders has poems published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Pacifica Poetry Review, Fat Girls Revue, The American Journal of Poetry, among other places. She enjoys writing everything except bios. She lives in Seattle, formerly Honolulu.