~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Cusp

Strangers mill around the dim

room of this one-story limestone

bluegrass joint, a lone holdout

from the seventies surrounded

by sleek skyscrapers. I sip water

by the bar as beers are poured

and pizza is sliced into red diner

baskets, as a guy onstage fiddles

with the banjo, checks a cord

in the left amp terminal. This

venue had been an evening pit

stop during a long journey. Within

these show poster-plastered walls,

the scent of her song still lingers

vaguely, but a new tune is on the

cusp of beginning. I turn to glimpse

a hand lifting in greeting, rivulets

of walnut hair, grey-blue eyes

lifting to mine which haven’t

fully focused as she says—

Hey there, I’m Emily.

Have you been here

before?