Author’s note: After spending an entire summer season, here are an initial impression of sultry Sundays in the Hostess City.

sun-dressed women
without men
in a Savannah church Sunday morning;
their men are gone or in jail
or insane or dead;
one floats by in a chic and attractive frock,
waiting . . . hoping
sliding off the edge
and down into darkness.
the bars are empty of candidates
the local fish houses the same;
it’s a male recession, they say,
the good days are
over.
you can’t tell a bad man
from a good one any more,
they all look alike
but these women feel the same
as if they were in their 20s,
only a little more desperate.

After church, they stop at the Crystal Beer Palace
for lunch in Old Town
and wait, wait, wait,
the place is full but the action
is listless
OPPORTUNITY, their dresses silently say, MEN WANTED.

their kindling has no fire
their seas are flat
their lands are dry
their temple bells are silent
sun-dressed women without men

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