Make reservations for a weeknight,
at the new restaurant in the next town over,
where they serve drinks in silly plastic bath tubs
with rubber ducks floating on curaçao-blue bath water
and the smoke from searing cuts of steak
perfumes the couples in corner booths:
L’eau de garlic.

Call in sick when the sun rises,
and I’ve not gone to bed,
kept awake through the witching hours by
the tale of a land where there are still dragons
and a knight who falls for the lady
with a skilled sword hand and
a sharp tongue.

Turn off my cell phone and
spend twenty unmoving minutes
in front a pond that Monet painted
until my eye lose focus
and the light tricks them into seeing
ripples move around the waterlilies.

Lay on the rocks that line the water’s edge
where the sound of the waves rises and falls
like breathing,
while the sun warms my back
as if I were a lounging lizard,
rather than a woman
with responsibilities.