Poem #119 of 365

I've walked into so many houses
in the middle of the night,
shown a bed and blanket,
clock and light.

Last night it happened again.

Two new people waited for me
at one in the morning. When my
bus showed at the Greyhound
station in McAllen, they pushed
forward shyly but smiling

and I knew I would make them
my friends. I love these awkward,
sudden meetings where I am touring
artist in a strange new place, with
no choice but to trust and welcome
the moment. And to open this heart
of mine, no need for hinges cuz
it has no door, and hug new people
and fall deeply deeply in love.

Until I'm gone again.

But things appear when you need them,
like beds and wake-up calls and fatty
funny cats. They make me feel at home
and wistful, like how could I ever want to
leave this home?

Dear Emmy was so kind to me, and right
on-point to make things good. I saw the
teacher and the wife and the writer in her,
in one inhalation of her aura and I wanted
always only great things for her.

When I told her that I wanted to contribute
to the local economy, and could we stop
at a liquor store, she agreed it was a good plan.
I pointed to a word she'd never read before,
it said a name and "liquor store". Bleary-eyed
from little sleep and too much public attention,
I fantasized aloud: "sometimes at liquor stores,
they have wine tastings, maybe there'll be one
here." And Emmy turned the wheel and nodded,
she's still learning the twists of my logic.

And, of course, it had to be, as I know I willed
it, there was a beautiful woman at a portable
bar offering free shots of top-label tequila.

I sang a poem for my second shot, and Emmy
marveled at my gumption. In twenty years, she'll
be poem-packin' with loaded heat of risk and rhyme.
But tonight, I was the drunk example of what
a lone Tejana woman poeta on the road could be.

Fearless, thirsty, with lyrical nerve, and a damn
big heart for the big wow now.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez