Seven Days from Wendy Beckerman by Wendy Beckerman

He was born with his heart
On the wrong side
On the wrong side
And where his heart should have been
Was a thrift store window
After hours
Shade pulled halfway
Hiding half the bric-a-brac

How do you
So easily
How do you
Turn my sign around to say
We’re open
Seven days a week
Except on holidays
When we’re sitting by the creek

Dipping toes in
Chasing what eludes them
Cold and light and heaven
Splashing just because they can
He keeps the map
That she once drew him
Folded into quarters
Tucked inside the pocket of his chest

How do you
So easily
How do you
Turn the key inside of me
We’re open
Seven days a week
Except on holidays
When we’re sitting by the creek

• Folk
• jazz
• poet
• singer-songwriter
• Pinole