The Waving Girl

When I think of the girl standing

at river’s edge, arms uplifted as

if crying for divine intervention,

I think of Savannah and its stately

homes and squares, but I also think

of longing run awry, but isn’t that

part of what love is about, longing

unfulfilled? She stands alone there,

towel waving at passing ships, awaiting

the sailor-lover who will never come.

The Waving Girl of Savannah. The sun

was sunny side up, yolk lava hot, when

I first saw her standing there. I

wanted more than anything, more than

asking Christ what he really felt about

Roman soldiers, to have a conversation

with her, the city light-tender’s sister,

but bronze lips never move. They just

burn in the sun and chill in the night

like the rest of us.