Another Shirley Temple*

A curvy path, down steep steps
that lead to a sidewalk.
“Don’t step on the cracks."
I tug on his tattooed arm
my blue name never washing off.
His Popeye the Sailor Man’s grin
animated eyes squint.

He turns a doorknob
opening to barroom
black as a jelly bean.
Neon letters glow orange, red.
"A Shirley Temple and a Ballantine."
"Like valentine?" I ask.
He winks.

One, two buckle my shoes
lift off of a sticky floor
and I sail to the top
of a red stool
bobbing like the cherry
in my sweet drink.

A jukebox weeps.
I spin round and round to a 45,
to a voice blooming:
Red Roses for a Blue Lady
skip to A Tisket a Tasket
find a dartboard, shuffleboard
but nobody plays here.

So I feed a nickel to a machine
and lifting a metal tongue
cashews slide down a chute
into my palm.

I watch him empty
glass after glass of beer
talking about work, work
in the mill all night, night
while I sleep weaving dreams.

Raising a little glass
he drinks down brown stuff
like the lemon and honey
he spoons down my throat
when I am sick, insists I wear
raw onions in each sock at bedtime
to pull the fever out of me
through my feet.

After another little glass of brown
poured from a bottle with roses on it
he downs another beer
without stopping, burping:
"Exxcuusse me."

I laugh.
Red-faced men with whiskers laugh.
Patting my back
he orders me
another Shirley Temple.

My glass sweats.
The ice cubes rattle.
I jump down
from my stool
lead him out of the dark
as if we were leaving the movies
my blue eyes sting tears
from to much burning light.

We turn the corner
past the red roses that he planted
up three steps
through the doors
and onto the sofa where he stops
flopping like Popeye
after Brutus knocks him out.

I reach for his hand.

*First Published in Many Mountains Moving

Hunger

He arrived at the patched, screen door
wearing glazed, wingtip shoes
carrying a hard selling song
as he entered the room.

His fingers unfolded brochures
arranging them like place mats
atop a teetering table
next to Inky the cat.

Shameful shelves clung close to the wall
dressed in cans: corn, beans, peas.
He stared at hunger in their eyes
and chimed: Books are the key!

Knowledge to feed children: A – Z.
Order now! There’s still time
I will discount the fairy tales.
Smiles shined: she marked the line.

The priceless box arrived. Each book
intoxicating as wine
gold letters of the alphabet
embossed upon its spine.

Once Upon a Time, they only looked
at black letters, groups of words
twenty fairy tales never to be
sung, never to be heard.