You shone on me in Mexico.
Empty tequila bottle,
faded green slices of lime,
a feel good time,
all left by the pool.
we walked the damp night beach.
Your lips were salty dry.
Our moon shadows became one.
Now, you shine only on him.
You both want another.
Tomorrow I’ll Paint The Door
The setting sun will die someday too.
This summer love ends and
a new bottle of Chardonnay opens
Out my back door, at the edge of the meadow,
a fox trots by carrying
the last of my respect from his black lips.
Like my fading tan
slipping easily from my skin,
your warm clasp is gone.
From your pant’s pocket a whisked key,
tossed on the wooden table by
the front door, I’ll paint blue tomorrow.
Suzanne Bailie is an active member of the Playwright’s Factory Theatre in Seattle. A couple of her favorite activities is drinking strong coffee, cheap chardonnay, creating sculptures with hot glue guns and torn art collage. Her short plays and monologues are produced across the United States, United Kingdom, South America and Australia. Her plays, The Blankie, The Raspberry, Baby Jesus Does Not Kill Ninja Zombies are published. Suzanne’s poetry continues to be part of in many anthologies and online magazines. You might even read her poem on a Seattle metro bus.