We Will Wait by the Lake

In the crooked dirt lot

on Pleasant Valley Road

still faded men peddle

vibrant fruit — succulent, ripe to bursting —

near the southeast end of Ladybird Lake

she is not a lake at all

she is the dead wife of a president

she is the Colorado River in Texas

she buoys us, lapping anklebones

where we — feign soulful glimpses — sitting

flirting and desirous

with balmy sundown’s sultry suggestions

We never buy any fruit.

We sit tightly, we tremble

our hunger like water poured slowly.

The raw earth below wedded

with lake-wet and tender

eliciting illicit entreaties

from even the scores of

quivering bird-silhouettes atop

purring powerlines as the streetlights

kick awake.

Mute — but mutual — we muse in

such billowing saccharine

malleability

of possibility, believing — we might be

all we need.

The men sell all their wares.

The men are empty they are diesel fumes

New fruit will return

we will wait by the lake.

~

©DEF, 2019