Regulars

For Pamela and Betsey

i bet in a past life

we were sister-brides of christ,

cracking each other up with our impersonations of mother superior;

or plucky fallen women

comparing performance notes in some boom-town bordello.

in this establishment, they know us only in our present iteration:

repeat occupiers of the corner table, ordering the usual.

six elbows on the table, conversation frank as a precocious child, check!

there’s the drift to the parking lot for goodbyes

where the waxing crescent moon glows benediction

over us, and every kind of loyal.