Strange weather we're having, mid-
March. Congregation of lightning
in the forecast. Warm winds.
A woman closes her jacket.
Kicks up the volume on her cell
even though we are side by side,
in public, same bartop, radio on.
Blasting "It Ain't Over 'til It's Over."
Then, "Gabrielle." Someone here,
not me, is heartbroken.
Someone here, not me, plunges
their fingers into vegan nacho dip.
I chew the strands of lime
floating in my margarita.
Lick salt pearls along my thumb,
which itches to text you back.
Mostly about the cherry blossoms,
which arrive, again, early this year.
All that extra heat
a city generates,
something the green buds
mistake for sun.
