Before my table disappears into three a.m.
darkness of Sunday morning;
before shrieks, laughs,
clinked glasses
ebb to silence,
let me just
say goodnight
to the sink, broom and mop
huddling together in the bathroom,
mounds of discarded towels.
Let me not hear reeds whispering
together after someone chucks a stone
into their depths.
How can we know for sure no one
is stranded tonight? no one calls
rescue me, lighthouse,
I’m here
waiting on a pile of rocks.
Trish Saunders has poems appearing (or forthcoming) in Chiron Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Open Arts Forum, Book of Matches Lit Review, Main Street Rag, among others. She lives in Seattle.
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