Roast Chicken

In the love story of my life, I’m walkin’ south on W Peachtree St.—

headed downtown.

The wind blows and moves over my face like the warmth of an oven opened to peep on a roast chicken—

with tarragon.

A tell that the hot southern August has packed her bags,

gassed up the convertible,

and is on her way.

There’s a waxing crescent moon,

not like the waning I was born under.

No. She’s new.

And there’s one star.

I walk down the sidewalk.

And the amber of the Bank of America’s pencil steeple glows against the black.

And the breeze blows a mess of hair down the block.

I don’t know what color it is.

That doesn’t matter.

A laugh rides the air from down there to my ears.

And a man turns.

And his eyes see green eyes.

And he grins—

on North Ave.

And the light changes.

And the cars go.

And the world slows for a moment.

Just one.

I smile back—

and there’s one beat.

And he beams without his teeth—

“Hi.”