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Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner |
Before the key did its magic,
it was like
we were only breathing,
nothing more.
Two-dimensional
sleeping
inside a dream.
Blank space
until the kiss
of home
opened the door.
I was also inspired by dVerse: Poetry in Liminal Spaces, but I’m too late for the link.
Photo: a wall someplace in Arizona.
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Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner |
It was obvious
why she’d chosen the Marietta Diner,
in retrospect.
Spacecraft-esque and in Georgia.
She spilled a Coke
meant for someone else’s table
when she placed
a Cobb salad in front of me,
shaken by a few Russians discussing
the cosmonauts in a cloud of smoke nearby.
That’s when we’d recognized her
from a grainy photograph on the History Channel.
And of course, she’d had a different name.
Soon after, she’d been replaced
and we were told she’d taken ill.
But as we walked toward our Chevy,
there she was
crouching down behind it,
bumming a ride.
If someone is brave enough
to wear a red leather jumpsuit
and they ask for your help,
you know they need it.
So, we dropped her “anywhere,”
as requested.
She blew us a kiss,
and one toward the east,
then strode high, helmet in hand,
toward Narikala
and, we hoped,
home.
For Shay’s Word Garden Word List
Since I recently returned from a trip to Georgia (state not country) and watched (tripped-out over) Season 1 of Constellation, this is what the muse gave.
National Poetry Month: Day 2