Tobi Alfier

Please Give This Day a Meaning

You may not think these are important:
you, on the corner barstool
in the place off the highway
filled with the language of leaving,
the language of heartbreak and goodbyes,

but one hundred percent it matters to her,
as she orphans her margarita, checks her watch
and wallet to plan the rest of her afternoon here,
her shirt the light blue of a clichéd sky
and her pants the dark blue of stormwashed sea,

no jacket for the dusk getting cool
as an a/c in the home of a hot-blooded husband,
her home, which is why she finds herself
checking the runaway cash and counting
a nice tip before she has to go.

There’s a place for her in this world,
one hundred percent a doorway of contentment,
a bakery of nice smells—rosewater, lavender,
tents where farmers install their workers
for the harvest, a place for her.

She once went to France to stomp grapes
for the harvest. Completed the form en Francais,
yes she did. And she stayed in a heavenly tent,
safe, warm, lots of wine and laughter,
might’ve been the best time of her life.

This is what she thinks about at night,
when the blackout shade is pulled down
over the moon, when her trance of nothingness
is lifted, the digital clock ticking a soft remembrance
—she was young, pretty, brave, and wild.

Please give this day a meaning.
It’s not all about her, never all about her.
She asks a stranger to tap her when it’s 5pm,
time to head home, make a nice dinner,
evening fed to memory, no salt on the rim.

Tobi Alfier’s credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, Ragaire, and Washington Square Review. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).