A courtyard patio lit by heat lamps.
Muffled conversations mixed with songbirds
in the air, a jazz trio in the corner.

Down the street buskers play the same tunes
but with more urgency. All have tip jars
but those in the courtyard will be paid anyway.

I much prefer cellos, she says to the man
who is trying to make a good impression.
What can he offer to that piece of conversation

other than try this delicious poached lobster
as he lifts a fork to her lips, an offer to share
even though he does not like sharing.

He’s had so many lucky breaks
but this woman, in a dress red as rage,
will not be another notch in his belt.

They finish their dinner as the early stars
come on slowly, night air scented 
with her perfume mixed with the sea.

And then she’s gone with stunning grace.
She touches his cheek, touches his lips, 
walks slowly backwards into the dark.
                        

The weekend comes.
It brings needling rain,
the far-off sound of waves,
and stale coffee.

The roses out front are dead,
backyard hydrangeas in motherly bloom.
A new back fence swells with moisture
as do her lips, gently wet.

She opens a bottle,
drinks herself giddy and numb,
speaks in terse extracts to herself
as she watches the sky change

from cloudy to sun.
She feels the wet heat
climb up her shirt,
dampen her brow

with lies and more lies.
She’s lived legends
barely remembered,
another drink and she remembers less,

waits for the dusty streetlights
to remind her of anything after hours. 
Nighthawks buzz their hints
and opinions in the swampy beginning darkness.
                        

She realized she’d lost his ring
one quiet morning, when fog
muscled in from the sea.
When outside sounds were muffled
and even the sounds of her
riffling through papers and memories
were near to silent, like ghost-tiptoes
on wooden floors.

Was it a vital possession,
well yes it was. She’d twist it like
a worry stone on a palm lined with questions,
like a magic eight-ball, like cards
by the tarot reader in her tiny turquoise
house in front of the rental car agency
where people pawned their rides
for ones in shadow.

Did she have it to ward off the ladies
in front of the Korean market,
the ones who passed out bible verses
and hand sanitizer for cleanliness of soul,
what an odd combination—she couldn’t remember.
Did she have it at the Goodwill
where she nabbed a dress dropped off
by a woman in a Tesla,

cold cotton against her warm cheek.
But that ring, with the tiny diamond
and the giant promise she’s never broken
and neither has he, did she feel it brush
against her with that dress, perfectly functional,
ridiculously non-worn, and somewhat spiteful
in the tossing, did she feel the ring
she couldn’t say. Under oath she couldn’t say.

Like the lucky slice of King cake
the ring turned itself up
and even that was a mystery.
Sorrowful cello music was playing
and there it was. The cello turned graceful, 
she stood like stone, time moving backwards
and forwards and backwards again, 
her relieved laughter gambling with tears.