Rebecca Laroche

Twelfth Night

I drank silence
in three tankards. Cold air. Dusk.
The after-image of fur.
Long clear liquor.

Used to be I'd retreat
to a three-martini lounge. Smoke-lined,
talk-coated, we'd drink
to the weekend, Greg Brady
and anything safe.
Teacher, actor,
well-paid webmaster,
ermine, badger,
bear: we all wore fur.
Even in June.

It is February.
I faintly know
the young man
in the coffee bar. Unshaven,
obviously depressed. I want
to tell him how,
one recent winter's evening,
from the path ahead,
a fox looked at me,
continued crossing.

next page>