You parted your curtains,
neon light fills the room.
Jasmine blooms in a paper cup.
Small boats sail up to your window,
the crew looks in through the glass.
This does not disturb you.
Or do they doff their caps and mock you?
You wave back, uncaring, and
almost hear the ocean.
You sense a memory being chiseled
from this room, this night of dumb peace.
and think, I’ll come back years from now,
to be consoled for some future pain,
A hand closes the curtain.
Trish Saunders writes poems from Honolulu, Hawaii, and Seattle, Washington. She has been published in Blast Furnace, Off the Coast, Right Hand Pointing and Snapping Twig. She has won zero poetry awards.