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fireflies I could be sorting mail, bagging groceries, scooping ice cream into waffle cones,
cleaning seaside rental cottages. I could be weeding the town park gardens. I could be
tending bar at weddings, running the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair, driving a shuttle bus
of seniors to the library, leading a Girl Scout field trip. Selling shoes. But I’m here,
fishing for poetry and the lines are squirreling out of my grasp. I want to hose them down,
cluster them like grapes, top them with a drizzle of honey. I want to pour the froth of them
into a tall, lean glass or tip them into freefall or stack them, neat as guest linens. I want
to see what they’d look like in a pair of stilettos. But all they want is my quiet company.
They want my easy lap, my doughy palms on their shoulders. They want to lean back
and watch the sky turn dark and wordless, until it blinks with fireflies.
© Maya Stein
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