-periodic muse under the cover of winter-

the pressure's on.
my back’s against the wall
and me, without a sombrero
retrieved from the dust to offer comfort.

expectations are high, but doubt lingers.

girlfriend came flying in
from the land of the over-exposed Sun.

she showed-up at the door to the northeast wind
under a cold, driving rain at high noon, unannounced,
due to a pathological finding of: "death by malfunctioning smartphone."

we went out to eat and drink.

we had a good time.

in the morning she took-off on a southerly heading,

first class on a snazzy aeroplane.

the pressure's on.

I gotta pen something that’ll send her swooning 

within the fragile domain of warmer weather, where

she offers comfort to those in need and croons some tunes
to the highball set in rooms of low light and soft licks.

from this poem-writer’s point of view

something beyond the two-of-us has to show-up

in order to avoid repetitions of  "just-we-two;"

(a lonely-heart at the end of the bar on the edge of despair;

a seagull gliding over the Newport dumpsters, panting for a drop

of Duck á l’Orange;  I say,
a weathered boutique at the head of the wharf, pushing

pricey bath soaps fashioned in the shapes and pastel
frostings of fancy french pastries)  but––

in the end, this outing had none of that. but––

from the beginning, this outing had the two-of-us and that was enough.