Enterprise
Kelly Luce

Miller and Maker’s, a foundry worker
(This is my second job—)
with feathered bangs and a nicotine habit.
Hail from a blue sky.

Lovers on the brink
have an appetite for the mundane.
What is a zebra after it is five years old?
A new, warm palm.

On the way to Boise I passed no lovers,
bought no coffee at the interstate gas station.
(M’lady, they shut off our well. We got nothing.)
The strawberry-haired attendant scraped bugs from my windshield.
(Rain-0 coats the glass. Debris slides off a dream.)

Mornings, the bartender fashions a soldier boy
while her son sleeps.
She heats bronze to a thousand degrees,
fills wax-lined molds.
Beside the choking fountain, she sucks in smoke,

throws back her head, glides straight to the stars.
She’s always wanted to learn the constellations.
Night is a freckled child. If we find patterns there,
we do not name them.

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