A Very Good Year

SUPPOSE

a sunny,
almost winter day.
Overhead, the easy grace
of thirty-six geese,
as slender and swayed
by the supple breeze
as marsh grass rising
like the last note
of "Is it a Crime."
And isn't it the sixiest of numbers,
its square root
equally sixy in jeans or
a cocktail dress?
Lips full and shining
as the moon after
the last hurricane.
Thirty-six is a leg length
that fits me almost perfectly.
I set my Earl Grey tea
down on the flat top of the three,
place my breakfast sandwich
in the hungry hollow below,
wishing to pick up
the six and trill it like a whistle.
On the jitney journey here
there were three people in the first row,
six scattered in the back.
In the Starbucks
there is a woman in front of me.
Her choice of earrings says
that she is a fashionista
of her wants,
but that she cannot work
a map well enough
to find the North of her needs.
I know too,
that there are 360 degrees
in every circle and that she
has more than 180
degrees of vision.
She is almost as slick
as she thinks she is
as she pretends not to notice me.
I pretend not to notice her
pretending not to notice me.
We both enjoy this game,
two schoolkids at Recess.
Her smile
is thirty-six diamonds
set in sunlight,
6 x 6 candles
on a gourmet cake.
The sommeliers all say
1976 was a very good year.
I know nothing of wine,
but can admire the curve
of a well crafted bottle.
My eyes linger on
every letter on the label.
Have I forgotten
a card for a friend
whose birthday approaches?
In the Gift Shop
I eye a box of thirty-six
dark chocolates,
imagine a certain one
melting slowly
on the heat of my tongue.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnaomon.)