Susan Alexander, the snow, 1981

by Harry Calhoun
dark hair framing an alabaster face,
eyes brown almonds under long lashes
that face I can’t forget, you waiting
to deliver drinks, your subsistence to fund

your full-time job as goddess.
Marty and I off-duty bartenders at that college bar
sipping away our sorrows by your station.
Marty moved on, restless as most of us

were in those days, looking for something more.
It started snowing and with business slow
the bar closed down early. You complimented
my white sweater and said I looked handsome

and asked if I’d walk you home. And
in the universe of snow swirling around us,
stars of it settling in your hair, I never settled
as close in orbit as an arm around you.

We were going home, holidays, and we smiled
and I’m sure you know I almost kissed you
as I squeezed you hand goodnight
and I think you wanted me to, but

I walked away still smiling, the wistful shuffle
of a missed opportunity
as the snow started sticking
to the ground, painting possibility,

a landscape I dreamed about that night
as flakes fell
outside my dreams
and today and many dreams

since
Harry Calhoun is a widely published poet, article and essay writer. Check out his online chapbook Dogwalking Poems, his trade paperback, I knew Bukowski like you knew a rare leaf, and the recently published The Black Dog and the Road. He’s had recent publications in Chiron Review, Chiaroscuro, Orange Room Review, The Centfigugal Eye, Bird’s Eye reView, Abbey, Monongahela Review  and many others. Find out more at http://harrycalhoun.net.

© 2010, Harry Calhoun