Sewell's Mill in 1984, my mother enters the office
where her mother's friends work. All of them know
her and smile through their smoky
truth, talking money and politics. My mother
is not interested in this; she plows toward
the mangled, needle-ridden employment office
whose non-union infamy makes this place a
sweat shop under God and Reagan, indivisible,
unlike the lapped seams and bar-tacked corners of pockets
bundled in twine. She hands in her application, only
after every option has been extinguished.
There was athe sock-shop husband in the hospital
parking lot with a thirty eight and wetness,
warmth on the windshield, cracked safety glass
behind. She holds her own space in the office,
steps before a windowsill and blows the dead man
a kiss.
No comments:
Post a Comment