All I Want All Day

David Blair

All I want all day is morning with its nightgown eyelets
and its places for sleep like your long, slender arms,
your neck, your hair. All I want all day is daylight
with your toes down in your strapped sandals,
and so I’m standing by us in the taco shack
with a phone card, thinking about all the blue water
the combs and scissors sit in by the mirror
in the barber shop, punching in numbers, getting
another voice on the line. You’re in black sandals
and life is full enough, a brown paper bag
with two pepper & egg submarines ready to go,
past the salons, past the windshield replacements,
past the supply store, the braids and extensions
in every color known and unknown in nature.

All I want is companionable with these,
not the models wrapped in sanitary togas,
not the paradise beaches, the swimming pools
and chaise lounge chairs where you might smoke
long filtered light 100s but when you get up
you won’t trip on the cracked tortoise shell
or slip on the snake that the ants have already
beheaded, and if you stretch and yawn,
your mouth won’t fill with the rancid carapaces
and bait of whatever gets left in the stacked
traps at one end of the commercial boats,
and is never the green and yellow promise
of unity and progress that flutters from the mind
draped in every window, every heart.
© 2007 University of North Carolina Greensboro
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DAVID BLAIR teaches at the New England Institute of Art and Communications. Other poems appear this fall in Alaska Quarterly Review and Verse.