A consortium of hips, thick hips,
the unionized and synchronized
alike. Tough hips like rhino hides
herringboned around the watering hole,
assorted like the trove of rubber pencil
tops we picked through in elementary school—
do you remember mornings hunting
for quarters, earned or not, for god
knows what? It’s still like that. We wanted
the sashay and ended up with paper weight;
we wanted thunder, but caught
the flat clap of tires popping
on the freeway. We wanted the moon,
but all we got were catalogues,
inside jokes, petty marginalia. Years
ago, a stalk pushed through a seed
outside a windowsill, and all
those moons later a man landed
on the word rosehips. We’re still here,
romanticizing water cooler banter
as something we could pull off some day,
and until the boss lets us knock off home
we gather like rain. There’s much to be
desired, we’re told—to be desired, Oh God,
to bend down to the water
hole with one eye on the drink,
the other on its dry twin staring
back from the muddy tension of the surface.
Gulf Stream Magazine 