She called him Felix
Which meant ‘lucky’ to her
He was a middle-distance runner
She didn’t take him seriously
But shifted in her seat when he walked by
He thought her plain
But sensual in some way
She licked the corner of her mouth thoughtfully
Wore her skirts above the knee
He told her a story about a pair of green and gold yarn gloves
That he’d been given
It was a sting of recognition
She realized he’d given those gloves to her
When he left it had the feel of a little tradition
Latch solitude to the wind
But when you leave again
Leave something of you with them
Tie your fishing lines to the fence posts
And do your best to reel them in
The candle flickers
We measure mortals by unsturdy things
Tear leaves off of the sycamore
Pin down the butterfly’s wings
I never knew it got this cold in August
Here in Tuscon
Lonely in the evening
There’s nothing here to hold the heat
The sun goes down
It floats off and is lost
Anyway you got a jacket
Tell me where you got that necklace
He looked across the parking lot
At the path under the highway
At the mouth of it a man slung bags of cans across his back
He coughed, and he turned back to the table
She told him a story of a hand embroidered pillow
She’d been given
It was with a sting of recognition
He realized she’d given him that pillow
When she left it had the feel of a little tradition
So latch solitude to the wind
But when you leave again
Leave something of you with the
Tie your fishing lines to fence posts
And do your best to reel them in
The candle flickers
We measure mortals by unsturdy things
Tear leaves off of the sycamore
And pin down the butterfly’s wings
Mark Carrigan 