Deborah Bacharach

Out of Town

I sit on the damp grass at Grendel’s
and eat while the bums sleep
stretched out in their blue coats
the way I sleep in parks when I am foreign,
walking in desolate places
exhausted beyond fear.

I came down Stromboli, the sky
a bowl of stars, fire erupting
behind my hunched back.
I was so cold trespassing
in vineyards, tripping
on stones I couldn’t see.

Now the airports have cubicles
where I could pay and forget
my body is an animal
lying on the ground so close
so close I am afraid
one will wake and I will want
to offer my unfinished meal.

Deborah Bacharach is a freelance writing consultant in Seatle, Washington. Her work has appeared in The Antigonish Review, Literary Mama, and New Letters, among others. contact