Travis Stephens was raised on a dairy farm. He earned a degree at University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, before departing for the West Coast. Stephens became a sea captain and now resides in California. He has been published in the Upriver anthology, NOTA, Stoneboat Review, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Havik, and Pennsylvania English. His was a Poem of the Week for Silver Needle Press and other work will appear in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature the winter of 2018.
Single Women in Threes
watching three women drink coffee
seated outside
beneath a summer awning
bright one in black lace
blouse might be mother,
a straw hat, purple lipstick
the daughter in a jean jacket
line of turquoise studs along
the curve of upper ear,
that color of black hair that
shines dark blue. Eyes too.
Her friend a
curly swirly brown girl
with serious
judgmental brows
that speak of promise,
of promises questioned for lack of detail.
Single women in threes
in the shadow of an elm,
beneath the silent orb of a
camera set to watch the
sidewalk strollers,
furtive pigeons and me.
The little sister of my first wife
had hair black as thought,
eyes too, led groups of
Swiss visitors through the
New World wonders of America.
They teased her, of course, and
she answered in perfect Bernese,
until they pressed phone numbers
of grandsons and nephews to her.
Alas, she married in Wisconsin
and soon divorced.
She comes to mind for the way
she wore her hair in
loose curls, waves and smiles.
Not like this one under the awning
with her fierce bangs
a straight line cut into my heart
while she, her mother and even
her friend looks casually away.
Buses wait and kneel.
Cars touch the curb.
Like the camera I will watch
and do absolutely
nothing.