Poem for the Day: Happy Hour

What I want most is a table outdoors,
two glasses sweating. No--one, just one,
and a tree I can ease my hands over, feeling
white, knobby bark. That, and a blue sky
with wisps of clouds high up, a contrail
to remind me that others are busy, headed
somewhere, shut inside, smelling each other.
I want to smell hot pavement, dirt, the lime
in my drink, and hear no traffic, only the
birds calling in their dipping ways,
and if I kneel down and rest
my ear on the patio, I'll hear grass pushing
its way through cracks in concrete, not anxiously
but easily, like waking, falling asleep,
like sitting at a table in late afternoon,
with one drink and just enough ice cubes
to make it all last until evening.