Poetry by Jael
Habits
by jael bietsch

Somewhere north of Springfield, this dusty trailor
town, this red barn tavern and gravel parking
lot filled with card-tables, aluminum chairs,
every muscle in your body one
smooth movement you set the beat
on the snare under the blue tent,
every rope tight stretched to wooden pegs at my feet
where I sit in the open
door of your van,
staring at the brown skin of your neck
and dark hair curling under that faded purple cap.
Joe whispers blue and low
to placid-skinned drunks making little
noise at card-tables I catch you
glancing time
to time over your shoulder.

We could be alone watching breeze nod
through sweet-leaved trees
pulling up cool
strands of grass with our toes, sharing
sweating bottles of beer. Stretching
the shadow of the water-tower against the hills
like small waves of the bean field,
watching smoke rise
between trailors, families light
barbecues, bottle-rockets
and occasional yellow flowers sparking
bigger fires in the sky.

Hot under my skin
you toe the bass
vibrating air around us every crack
of the snare stirring dust, every thought
hidden behind dark sunglasses. You
concentrate on the heat
behind you.

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    ©: 1995 Jael Bietsch

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    March 8, 2000