The farmers’ market smells of
dirt and root vegetables
and the first apples of the season.
Old-fashioned Ida Red, freckled
Baldwins, the white flesh of
McIntosh thump against
the bottom of the black stock pot.
Steam sifts through the screened
window where summer meets fall
and fall is still summer.
I’m not angry.
I’m hurt or scared
or embarrassed.
Don’t humiliate me.
Not at home. Not at school.
Not on the street.
Don’t show the world
how powerful you are
by yelling at me,
slapping me.
Show the world how strong
you are when you hug me.
Acknowledge me.
You’re hurt and scared
and embarrassed.
Be strong through kindness.
Feel your anger leave.
I want each baby
to live safe and sweet
a full life,
to die in its mother’s embrace,
the mother held by her mother,
caring and kind
when her child of old age dies,
held close to her warm, soft bosom
that heaves with a last sigh of breath,
wrapped in her mother’s arms.
We were given an 8 to 5 workday.
They added overtime.
We came in earlier,
stayed late.
Next month the 8-hour day
will become 10-hour shifts,
covering the 7 to 4 workday –
7 a.m. to 4 a.m.
They say it’s optimizing
our work schedules
to meet our customers’ needs.
We say, “I can’t get child care
at 9 o’clock at night” and
“My night course starts next month.”
They tell us, “It’s your job,”
dismissing complaints with an irritated shrug.
The VPs and the senior VPs
and the very president himself
enumerate the endless benefits
of working at BankBig:
We give you reduced ticket prices to concerts
and baseball games and discounts on laptops
and bonus points if you use your BankBig credit card
at Nordstrom and Lowe’s –
and we barely score 30% job satisfaction?
With scorn and disbelief they ask,
“What is wrong with these people?”
Next month, the week I start
my 8 p.m. shift, I’ll take
the annual employee survey.
They could use a lesson in optimization.
Make a salad.
Pay some bills.
(Good lord, the power bill’s high.)
Change the light bulb in the garage.
Feed the birds.
Scrub the birdbath
green with summer algae.
Pull a few weeds.
Head to the basement.
Ignore the dusty cobwebs.
Scoop out the cat box.
Drop and give me 20 on the Total Gym.
Procrastination requires imagination –
or at least perseverance.
Find the emery board.
Shape nail, neaten nail,
even out and smooth.
Shine and buff.
Almost too late to pick up a pen
and stimulate the brain with writing.
Pick up the Smart Phone instead.
(As if that won’t trigger dopamine.)
Os score, weather forecast, email.
FreeCell.
Hit Start. Win. Play Again.
Get stuck. Restart. Play Again.
Play Again. Play Again. Play Again.
Until the battery dies. FreeCell is dead.
For now.
Only ink remains.
Friday at work people tell her:
“Great dress.”
“Thank you!”
“You have a date tonight?”
“I do.”
“With Mr. Right?”
“Or Mr. Right Now.”
BIG LAUGH.
At five o’clock
she drives home,
removes the dress and
hangs it up,
washes her face of
mascara and blush.
She tries to smile,
to laugh at her ruse,
but sees only smoke
in the mirror.
Looking around at their reunion the man thought, I remember her. 20? No – 30 years ago we dated. She was cute. She’s still cute. She had a great vocabulary. Because of her I can say, “My vegetable garden is languishing this year.” Because of her I don’t smoke cigarettes. My wife never knew who to thank for that. I enjoy the occasional cigar when I win a round of golf. She said she liked the smell of cigar smoke on a man. I wonder if she still does. 30 years. Man she’s still cute. She’d point out some nonexistent wrinkles, posture less than perfect. I just want to grab hold of her hand, kiss her cheek, hear her laugh. She always liked my laugh. Said I was smart-funny. I wonder if she still has that ring I bought her at the estate sale, a band of square-cut sapphires. I wanted to get her a diamond, show the world what she’s worth. She smiled in her eyes. “This is perfect. It’s a promise ring.” One she didn’t keep. I don’t know if I ever forgave her. I know I didn’t forget her. If she turns around and I catch her eye, will she remember me? How could she not? Sailboat rides on Charleston Harbor, oysters on the grill, how she’d get mad when I beat her at racquetball (I showed no mercy, I like to win), sex in the bucket seat of my Toyota on some back road of Tennessee. I used to type her manuscripts – Romance – hoping to help her in her writing success. Did she make it? I’ll ask her. In the back of my mind I’ll be picturing Tennessee. I’ll – there’s my beautiful wife, coming back from the bathroom. She says old exes can’t be friends.
Jane, after days and days of rain: The sun is out! Yay!
Leeza: Don’t get your hopes up. It’ll probably rain more later.
Later –
Jane: Look how pretty the sunshine is.
Leeza: It’s probably hot.
Upon sharing these rays of sunshine with a friend, Friend said: Hell, we ain’t got no hope.
Jane:
Nope.
No hope.
I’m just a dope.
Don’t hand me a rope
‘cuz I can’t cope …
or a bar of soap.
I don’t need to smell nice
and I won’t take advice,
‘cuz nope,
there’s just no hope.
Friend: You need to scratch that into the wall of your cell.
He sits on the front porch
to drink his drink
from a coffee mug until 2 or 3,
from a plastic tumbler the rest
of the day and much of the night.
From my kitchen window
I see the red glow
of his burning cigarette
across the unlit road
when neither of us sleeps.
He’s been ill.
He’s lost his capacity for recall,
his driver’s license, and
his once successful business.
Always in pain,
joints swollen and sore,
mostly he sits, staring at the concrete.
Sometimes he nods off.
I’ve awakened him
when the snow has built up
around his feet,
sifted into a blanket on his lap.
“Hi. Craig. Aren’t you cold?”
It’s been an hour since he’s stirred.
I was worried.
He smiles, bemused,
sees the cold cigarette between his fingers.
Before I’ve crossed the street
he’s lit up,
his body slumping into
the folding chair.
No more decisions to make,
no more than if
he wants a drink, needs a coat.
A day passes. Another. Many.
Today the porch is empty.
In a wall of noise the emergency truck arrives,
a fire engine, an ambulance,
two sheriff’s cars.
There is a rush around him
as he hasn’t rushed in years.
A choice, one last decision to make,
to go.
I love to shop, shoes and books,
clothes especially,
but the thought of working in Retail?
I’d rather slit my wrists with a hanger.
And hangers are why.
When I hang my things I can see:
1 white long-sleeve T-shirt
2 white short-sleeve T-shirts
3 white tank tops
Same T-shirts neatly folded and stacked:
1 I can’t tell what’s in the pile
2 I waste time rummaging through the pile
3 The pile is no longer neatly stacked.
But hangers leave dimples
(only cute on Shirley Temple),
and anything with straps gang-chains
hangers, entwines them like lovers, like wrestlers.
Perhaps the patience angels
see me lose mine as I heave
the plastic and metal to the floor
with a strangled yell.
My fear of hell isn’t fire and brimstone.
It’s an eternity of sorting a warehouse-
size box of hangers
after a one-day sale at Kohl’s.
~ Jane
buffaloed 