Unstructured Time

 

You are eight, almost,

And it is 1962.

Kennedy is still President,

But you don’t know that

Or if you do, you don’t really

Think about it.

 

Your mother has gone into the store

To get some groceries, and

You and your sister

Are left in the 1957 Buick convertible.

The top is up because the sun is too

Bright, and makes the plastic seats hot.

 

Cars pass by, and pedestrians scuff

Along the hot sidewalk

No one knows that someday

There will be few who do not

Own a cellular phone,

So they walk along actually

Talking to their friends, who walk next

To them and make eye contact.

 

Panty hose have not been

Invented yet.

Phones have dials.

Televisions have knobs that you walk

Across the room to turn on.

Your mother still gives you a

Vitamin every morning

Before breakfast.

 

Your sister, who is five,

Sits in the back seat

Kicking the back of yours,

Thumping, thudding,

Annoying you,

As you stare through

The front window of the store

Waiting to see your mother paying

For the groceries.

 

There she is, in her red lipstick

And white cotton gloves.

Pulling paper money from her

Purse as the grocer packs the food

Carefully in cardboard boxes, and the tomato

carrier with the curved handle.

The store door jingles, as he smiles the

Boxes to the car,

Calls you Sport or shorty,

winks at your sister.

The trunk pops open

And you can’t see them anymore.

But you can hear them exchanging pleasantries.

 

“See you next time Mrs. ______,

Looks like it might rain tonight, the humidity is real high!”

You can smell the ripe bananas in the trunk,

And your mother has bought each of you

A red rubber ball with stars and stripes.

When you get home, you run around the yard

Just to feel the breeze.

 

 

 

Diane E. Dockum

March 15, 2012