April 10, 2011 § Leave a comment
By Adriana DiGennaro
The whole khaki town lines up outside
before I come up, delicate
with ratty hair, having walked
on the churchless side of the street
up to work at Plaza Bootery
where I wrench the tall brass key
in its lock and shuffle in. I fit Addisons, Hadleys
for communion Maryjanes,
see the branches flaking leaves
that blow through the doorway,
endless mothers struggling there
to steer the strollers,
saying Ashton sit down
so the lady can measure you.
Then the fugue of my trips downstairs into disorder,
boxes bursting from my arms
and scattering wads of tissue paper.
D’you want a lollipop? What color?
I’ll use a red one, a kid said carefully,
and there can be those moments
but at the end of the day I’m ticketed in the lot
and the metermaid is long off duty
and it somehow hurts, the word lollipop, and the idea of all
the families home at dinner.
I won’t forget the boy
who started sobbing when I didn’t have his size.
His father called him Little Bird.