No. 18 today at the bookstore

today at the bookstore

my husband plays saxophone
on the sidewalk,

while inside the sun
bounces from cars passing by.

reflections slide continuously
across one wall,
where brilliant patches of light flare
intermittently

and my husband’s shadow appears
and disappears
over and over again.

i buy a worn bar chair
from the nightclub next door.
i sell a Dorothy Parker
short story collection,
1939, hardback in dj,

breaking even for the day.

i watch my husband’s shadow,
adoring the cool silhouette--his hat,
the sinuous grace of the horn--

feeling anxious
each time he vanishes,
relieved at each return

as his music shimmies through the air
glides right through to me,
through the space & the glass
between us.

i think about how i will sit
in my tall new chair
and spin wool,

how shifting strands
will glide through my fingers,
twist and join,

become a fine line
connecting me

to the spiraling
spindle
dropping
so quickly
to the
floor.

--Zann Carter 04.18.09