REMEMBRANCE
Volume 4, Collected Poems, 2007
Preview
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 I asked to use the napkin.
Alert, back straight, I sat and ate all of my ice cream.
Podiatrist (1951)
I cleaned Dr. Willis' office.
On hands and knees,
I swept toenails and peelings of callous,
what trimmed feet leave,
and dumped them with disgust
in the trash.
The floor was the color of blood
and the nails I missed
were as sharp in my scrub rag as teeth.
I was relieved
that no one I knew was a patient.
Now words I clip
I deposit directly in the trash.
I treat my poems
in the way Dr. Willis treated feet;
I scrape and trim
and rub lotion
into skin where it's hurting.
I scrub each line,
apply wax,
let it dry, and then buff it.
What I achieve
is always more than expected.
And the poems: they shine!