I unpack the oranges, olives
& dark beer, take one outside
and sit on my deck, savoring
Provincetown sun
after three days of steady rain.
Wisteria feels its way
along my chipped iron rail
in spirals. I hear the smoky voice
of a woman passing by and think
of old lovers: veterinarian
who said I had beautiful
feet, professor who schooled me
when I was just coming out,
rainbow-haired butch who took
my order. But that was before,
and after. When I was married,
I was married. And when I was single—
girrrl, I was single. Baker
who called me doll and after
we got together
called me baby, tattoo artist
who left her mark, hairdresser
who ran her fingers, librarian
who accepted my late return.
©BARB REYNOLDS