Our thirty-eighth Tiger Poem is from new friend Elaine Bleakney.
Where we would be loose and yawning,
a high and well-fed party
leaning into each other, drifting around the
tree, watching the kids, sort of
irritated—the way we get
when nothing is clenched or was
for too long, muscled into a stupor, slow as the tree.
And the paired-off ones and the lone ones
paired-off and alone,
nothing awful or too dear. For awhile
there is nothing to say.