She could have been a merchant seaman's bride
a follower of ships
waiting in each next port
traveling on anticipated breezes
while he swam the route
upon the freighter carrying
grain or oil
food or autos

She wears the soft places of her body
like large dollops of unused paint
that never made it to the canvas

She is her own art
an image crafted from
a thousand unhesitant brush strokes
and she remembers each patch of sky
each dusty path she walked
as an almost tourist
almost wife

Now they come to her
the children of other seamen
now bound to port
by unimaginative occupations

She gives them beer and hamburgers
hiding the art of herself behind
loud music and nearly young girls
selling underwear right off their bodies
writhing to the beat
of weekend commerce

They come to drink
They come to dance

She listens to their landlocked tales
keeping her own adventures
beneath the table top
next to the billy club
she's never had to use

They've seen it in her eyes
on Saturday nights
when she shouts
"Last Call"

and they know
she means it