Roughing It

"When is daybreak?" 

-- Denise Levertov

Saturday night: A lone saxophone whose groan 

cuts through four blocks of generic midsummer celebration,

the nausea of walking exhaustion,

an anticipation of orange juice.

It is an experiment in the collective, 

the eventual recoil from crowds,

and an indefatigable craving for the privacy of a ball cap.

Saturday night: Storage unit for fond recollections 

of the Trevi Fountain, 

prosciutto and melon, 

of how we got lost in the mirror coming to terms with our ugliness.

It is the acknowledgement of impossible pure pleasure

so long as enjoyment is riddled with a desire to possess  

or resentful of surrounding success.

Saturday night: Fluttering eyelids in the face of strangers, 

slowly drooping,

an exchange of differing perspectives on pork with a handsome Uzbek. 

It is overriding the memory of every previous Saturday with updated versions,

each assumingly better than the last 

though the atmospheric pressure 

to Laissez les bons temps rouler! is notorious for causing broken ribs and bankruptcy.

Saturday night: Sons squeezed through the eye of a needle,

daughters, a tube of Colgate toothpaste:

swimming in the dark to their respective apartments 

as prelude to a dream of the morning's hot shower 

while the remaining brothers and sisters seem unable--or willing--to master 

that delicate art of belonging to any one place.

For us, it is pitching a tent in a petri dish, 

digging the stakes into barstools,

and making camp at Lost Lake Cafe until whichever comes first:

the light of Sunday

or the humility to go home.