Timpressionist (timpressionist) wrote,

Savannah in the Morning

Savannah drinks black coffee from a mug the color of cigarette smoke and Spanish moss. She watches the sky change from predawn blue to a rusty red to an even cover of slate gray. She watches a lone early morning walker cross 37th Street, pass the library, the uptown precinct, pause outside a coffee shop to catch the smell of bread.

The city has a multitude of lovers. Some abuse her, hock her jewels, need her desperately even as they wound her.

pours another coffee and this time adds big heaping spoonfuls of sugar. She cradles the mug and enjoys the rhythm of the traffic lights changing in triplets, green-yellow-red all down Liberty, all up Oglethorpe.

Some of the city’s lovers want to change her, think she’d look better if she dressed a little classier. “A Dior dress, perhaps,” they say to a polished black-vested bartender. Other lovers wonder where she’s put her crinoline and lace, petticoats and broad straw hats. “She’s not the woman I fell in love with,” they whisper to the mirror and adjust their bow ties.

brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and opens a bottle of champagne. She listens to the clatter and pop as the cafes set out chairs and raise umbrellas. She hums along to the risk-rasp-risk of bike chains. She smiles at their hope and faith in her on a gray dawn.

Lovers come to the city for a night, a weekend, a year. Each leaves believing they know her: a quiet lady of culture; a party girl with a wicked grin; a wise and stern teacher. She takes them, one and all to her bed, but she takes great pains to see that they leave, each and everyone, before the dawn. She keeps morning for herself.

climbs out on the roof and breathes wet air, lightly salted, jasmine perfumed, piqued with the earthy scent of manure and the bitter tang of ammonia.

She loves them all; collects them all like rare and treasured porcelain figures.
Her horses. Her mad laughers. Her children. Her old leathery men with faded tattoos on the beach. Her cutting winds. Her bankers. Her highway. Her peach-colored girls with fresh ink on their backs. Her river. Her travelers. Her insane Augusts. Her dusty black men and their palmetto roses. Her smokers. Her sensible Aprils. Her Vegans. Her one night stands. Her blackouts. Her romantics and dark cynics. Her lightning. Her childhood sweethearts.

She loves them all. She lays a cool hand on every cheek and breathes a shivering secret in every ear.
The city has a multitude of lovers.
She will never let them, not any one of them, ever forget her.   

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