For The Winter

The wind has just enough bite
to send me to my closet
for my old, ratty cardigan.
The sky is black
with straggly v's.

The geese are flying south.
I want to go, too.

Somewhere cheap and warm,
where the tequila is complimentary
and the sand is as soft as the belly of a bird.

I won't speak the language,
so I'll tattoo invitations on my hips
and wear apologetic t-shirts
until I pick up a phrase or two
tending bar for the locals.

Reading eyes,
lips,
weathered hands,

and collecting stories
like tips in a jar.

For Open Link Night at dVerse