We're back on the picket lines tomorrow at nine, he says, closing his bar tab, so this is the only drink I'm allowed today. The bartender sticks a lime in it, grumbles at the service, rolls her eyes in your direction as another group comes in. Mondays were not meant for working, she seems to say, as she makes another batch of negronis.
You make eyes at the striking barfly, wonder what else he could tell you if given the time, wonder what else you could teach him under union rules. He waxes on about negotiations and there's a glimmer in his eyes that you think could be better spent elsewhere, you are no good to anyone in this March gloom, useless before spring bursts into your fingertips, you do not remember how to bring a person home (metaphorically). You wish him luck, turn back to the bartender, commiserate over the weight of the world.
Once spring bursts into my fingertips,
you whisper to yourself,
once life returns to these frozen rivers in my veins,
I will show you a match,
I will show you a strike
to start a
fire.
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