Last month I went on a short vacation to a tropical paradise. One evening my wife and I found ourselves sitting in a crowded bar, watching a band set up as patrons continued to arrive. The bar was small. Amongst all of this chaos there was a woman twisting and turning her way around the floor – keeping track of drink orders on her fingers. And always with a smile. We both observed that she seemed to love her job. This poem was written on a napkin in the bar.
Cyclone woman Without warning I find her blowing into my life and I feel adrift already missing that cyclone woman before she's fully arrived. Nothing could ever be the same, I would walk through the debris for a final kiss.