She's long from the sea,
solidified in arched yearning,
elbows to the sky,
tail twisted fetchingly
under her.
When it rains, there are still
no fish and no salt.
Nothing of that remains,
if ever she knew it,
mythic creature that she is,
become garden ornament
in her old age.
Why she reminds me
of that diner in Baltimore
I cannot fathom.
Those unsmiling women,
their white uniformed backs
alien as whales,
their grey heads netted,
only turned to serve
in that cool white refuge
from the street's sweat.
No mermaids in their lives,
though it's true I never saw
beneath the counter level
where no doubt
bound fishy parts worked
for something less
than change.
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