Drug Store (1947)

My grandmother bought me ice cream
and the druggist placed
one dip of vanilla on the marble in a metal bowl.

A nickel it cost in the town and it tasted cold,
not as cold as the ice cream we churned,
still a firm round ball.

The chair I sat on was round and had wire legs
and a back in the shape of the beater
we used on rugs.

I hated that job at the clothesline,
the way the grit got into my mouth and my eyes,
how the dust would rise
no matter how long I beat it.

Just now I remember the drugstore,
the drugstore smell
that forever harks back to vanilla;

how erect she sat and smiled, sipping sarsaparilla
in her round black hat
and black coat
and black purse that hung down.

On the knuckle of one thumb was a cut healed blue.
She got the cut peeling potatoes.
It had started black
as potatoes do, left to air, and was part of her,
as important a fact as her pride and her proud, pleased face.

Only once was I asked to use the napkin.
Alert, back straight, I sat and ate all of my ice cream.