Jess Burnquist

Still Life, City. Progression.

In the auditorium the Time Warp blares. Sisters

In braids prowl the lobby twisting synthetic scarves

Into snake-ropes for jumping—they form a near

Miss of a dance that their father forgets to notice.

He is unshaven and intently pondering a message

I will never read. Outside, the city pretends

To be more worldly than it is—an insecure façade.

Earlier this morning a herd of teenagers gathered

Around cafe tables trying hard to be something akin

To cosmopolitan—betrayed by their wide eyed

Gawking at the bejeweled gentleman who sauntered

Into the ladies room. How this day moves into itself

A crowded choreography, a stuttered line

Or misunderstood cue. There are windows

And through tinted glass the sisters

Have begun to navigate 

The difficult

Concrete.

They have moved further away

From their father who has startled himself

Into an embarrassed awareness checking all directions,

A frantic parental compass, for his girls.

Reddening, I think, because he traveled

Blocks of a spaced-out distance long enough

For his daughters to move in curious tandem,

Scarves circling their necks like landmarks

Through a city at once young and nearly lost.