Quarters
Wednesday.
Grocery Day.
And if I can find a quarter,
I can ride the merry-go-round
at the market
when Mommy goes to town.
‘Apollo’ and I
will fly round and round–
and never leave the ground…
So, early, to grandma’s, I run,
To sweep her porch,
Get chores done.
Under the arching elms,
Sun-dappled, dew-laden,
Dandelioned and buttercup-strewn,
Past twining roses,
the breeze splashing about
in the fragrant cloud,
confetti of pink petals
clings to my bare feet.
At the back door,
I can hear through the screen,
friendly chatter,
the milkman delivering
the usual two gallons,
boxed donuts,
cartons of eggs–
‘almost as fresh
as the biddie’s used to bring’–
And brief company
for a lonely old woman,
past raising her own chickens.
“Well, hello there, my friend”.
Though kindergarten stole me away,
my Wednesday-friend is still the same:
“What is behind your ear?”
Mr. Hooper, dark-rimmed glasses
that rest more on his cheeks,
than his nose;
wavy, white hair
curling out from the uniform cap,
reaches close,
retrieves a quarter hiding there,
just where he said,
where I was sure
I had scrubbed good.
He winks at Grandma;
waves goodbye, steps out
to his yellow delivery truck,
that waddles through the holes
in the gravel drive,
puddle-jumping
as it goes.
II
Wednesday.
Grandma is gone.
So is Mr. Hooper.
I have long-since stopped
hoarding quarters
for the merry-go-round
at the grocery.
Every Wednesday now—
and all the other six days beside—
study and essay,
notation and grade-point.
Quarter point between me
and valedictorian–
and scholarship.
Campus, littered with filtered shadow,
trees sway in golden light,
fringed with fragrant roses;
Pedal-strewn, the sidewalks
call me onward,
Miles to go,
around the academic calendar,
circles unrelenting.
No time for puddle jumping.
One quarter until graduation.
If only a quarter of a grade point
hid behind my ear;
I reach my finger up,
and check,
just to be sure.
III
Wednesday, again.
Where did all the Wednesdays go?
My editor marks off
the approaching deadline.
Deadlines met, passed, forgotten;
Replaced by the endlessness of task.
The next quarter-installment.
On Thursdays,
and sometimes on Fridays,
when no new deadline exhales
its dragon breath
through the filtered light
of a long and happy marriage,
where I seek quarter, find respite,
I can smell roses,
mostly from memory.
The neighbor’s chickens,
scratch along in my yard,
gift eggs under the roses,
where I’m certain there were none before.
Grandchildren sweep my back step for pocket change.
IV
There are no more milkmen.
Late on Wednesday,
I head to market, alone.
Park under a shady elm.
Over the clamor of folks
hurrying here and there,
I catch a hint of wild roses.
I still need my quarter,
to wrangle a cart,
from its locked corral.
I shop from a list of cans
and cannots,
meant to keep me well,
to extend my life.
With 90 in the rear view,
to what purpose?
Every Wednesday:
vegetables, fresh fruit, prunes, and salmon.
I forego the box of cereal twigs.
I get the regular coffee anyway.
And the muffins.
A carton of eggs–
nowhere near as fresh
as the biddies used to bring.
I head for the car.
There is a puddle;
Sadly, I am too tame,
have forgotten how–
My shoes would get soaked.
I let the coin-laden cart
run wild in the parking lot…
Relinquishing my last quarter.
Sej 2023