There we sat in an old bar on Clinton Street.
You were dressed in white, white turtleneck
and jeans and we were holding hands, drinking
beer, the pitcher perched between us, and I
was awake and aching. It was no dream.
The beer tasted cold and weak and suddenly
I wanted pretzels, salt and crunch, so I reached
for a basket down the bar between two men,
who immediately jumped up and surrounded us.
They were stupid drunk and wanted to go outside
to fight. And then we were out in the snow,
laughing, our breath mingling with falling flakes,
your hair pulled back in a ponytail, mine long
and black and wild and it was summer, we were
swimming through early morning mist. Invisible
bullfrogs croaked in the reeds and we were tumbling
through a stream of stars, hurtling toward gaping
dark, as we clung to shards of bronze and heard
horses as they neighed in terror above our startled heads.
About the author:
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared in nine countries, in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Antiphon, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press, 2013) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).