…around the curve and down the hill on Adams Lane
Little brown children
–cute as cartoons;
wet as otters;–
inflated wading pool,
July blue sky
scudded with clouds.
Their father, laughing.
Every Saturday at 7:45:
She’s in her scrubs, carrying a solid-looking sack
(Gallon of milk? Carton of juice?
Did she stop at the convenience store
for cereal after working
the graveyard shift
at the old folks’ home?)
Her tiny frame leans tightly, one shoulder up.
Her hair, hacked blunt, is light and clean and flying.
The sun blinds her glasses.
She walks gingerly, as if her feet are tender, on the very edge of the road.
She is always smiling.
She opens her car door into traffic
and heaves herself out of the dented SUV.
Slams open the back door
and drags out a brimful basket of folded laundry.
She is large and broad,
tautly T-shirted, and her unrealistic
blonde hair, pulled tight,
hangs in one long hank
down her back.
He jumps out the passenger door,
a leering large-grown leprechaun;
he grabs the crotch of his baggy jeans and jiggles,
dancing as he flaps his lips.
(Oh, very NICE, mutters my disgusted son)
She doesn’t even look at him,
just hefts the basket and trudges.
A tiny man with high-belted pants
and a jaunty straw fedora.
She waits, even tinier,
at the passenger door of the giant gleaming
car. He shuffles around to get her door, then takes his time,
getting to the driver’s side.
He opens the door and suddenly, inspired,
he does a happy little dance,
leans in to mention something, listens;
laughs and climbs on in.
The door slams shut and the car ignites
and eases slowly–
oh, so slowly–
down the neatly sealed driveway.