Sirens

JEAN HACKETT

May 20, 2020

The woman behind the register,

unmasked in her yellow smoker’s smile,

edges closer like a snake approaching prey.

I slide the gas card across the counter,

inch away.

She chortles, You should have seen it yesterday,

so many headed down 37,

off to Corpus, Padre Island, Port A.

I could use some time off, she sighs,

her hot breeze breath flicks in my direction.

I step away again.

I wish the transaction would go through,

return to the safety of my car,

open the container of disinfecting wipes,

the only vaccine approved.

Safely behind the wheel,

I watch cars winding south toward the Gulf,

shake my head, recall this morning’s posts,

too many clips of glassy-eyed friends

stuffing cars with coolers and umbrellas,

striped towels and sunscreen.

Lured by the song of the waves,

desperate to dip their toes,

none seem to worry

by venturing out too far, too soon,

the riptide might embrace and bite,

sacrifice them to the sea.

JEAN HACKETT lives and writes in the San Antonio and the Texas Hill Country.  Her work has been most recently published in Voices de la Luna, The San Antonio Express News, and The Houston Chronicle.  One of her poems has been selected to appear on San Antonio’s VIA buses during National Poetry Month.