Diane Webster

Parking Lot

Like a mother making sure her child is safe,
like a thief timing comings and goings,
like a child peeking out from hiding
to see if anyone still searches
I sit in the bar’s parking lot.
If I go inside, everyone will know
I look for another for a drink
for a dance for a night.
I just want to talk, find someone I like.
I don’t drink, don’t dance, not
a one-night stand --
I don’t think.
Sit in a booth with a mysterious aura,
see if I radar in to someone.
Wait for her to catch my eye
or could I be so bold as to touch her arm
and say, “Hi. How you doing?”
Could months of getting-to-know-you
pack into an intuitive consent
to demolish my walls?
Could I haul my ass out of this car
and walk inside?

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