Hour and a Half

 

Beau Boudreaux

 

When you’re from New Orleans
Illinois means winter, a cold

tongue stuck to the pole…
Sophia moved to Chicago

with American Airlines,
I was on the land line

with Anne-Marie her roommate on Clark St.
high in my apartment sipping single malt

enveloped by silent snowfall, a suspension
bridge—our conversation an iced tunnel, clear throat

by 3:00am a no-brainer in Milwaukee
to drive…despite snow

before cell phone, map, forecast
flask between the seats, beat up Benz no heat

 I-94 east, her directions on a receipt
didn’t even really know Anne-Marie, not by sight

 walking off a pier in the dark
I followed the L

 an infinite loop, minotaur after four a.m.

release—my maiden
voyage, and when I rang she came

down we kissed like old lovers
on the Sylvan street

warmth on the couch of Anne-Marie vanilla behind each ear
slip of mattress beneath a window

opaque light caress the stretch of her
destination tan …

and in the morning light
she buttons AA navy,

making work
wind in her cap

drop her off 
O’Hare on time.


 

Beau Boudreaux is a poet and professor in Continuing Studies at Tulane University in New Orleans.  His poems have recently appeared in Antioch Review, Cream City Review, and Margie