The stadium is filling with red
and white striped shirts, a swimming
zigzag. What was left of the potential
rain has melted now into pure light.
Voices in unison singing
Seven Nation Army
by The White Stripes could be heard
by a barista all the way in Lower
Queen Anne and I want so much
to love it here—the depth
of our coffee, the sparkle in our sea.
I want to point to the eagle’s nest
by the walking path, maybe even have you
over, where I’ll slide open the closet door
to display my colorful collection
of rainboots of varying heights,
before I gesture towards the Locks
and explain how salmon
swim upstream and might still make it—
as if they didn’t need a ladder,
as if we don’t.
Amy Jean Bailey is a poet and educator who has a PhD in anthropology from UCLA. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Timberline Review, Clockhouse, in the anthology The Sonoran Desert: A Literary Field Guide (University of Arizona Press), and elsewhere. Born and raised in Chicago, and then living all over the U.S., she now resides with her dog in Seattle, Washington.
