reservation required
by Sara Clancy

an ordinary cafe window
watches the daylight
long enough to concede
that no moon will
sweep its prosaic crystal

inside the room may speculate
in the music of glassware and hurry
until some perfect theory
bubbles between the contours
of conversation and shapes
you almost recognize

but color itself commands the rain
and resets the evening’s imperative
twisting the geometry of intimacy
until you know that you prefer
the canvas of an empty restaurant

and to be out on a cold night like this
looking in

Sara Clancy graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Teemings, Houseboat and Owen Wister Review. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 20 year old goldfish named Darryl.

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