The rain fills
every hole in
the bricks,
making tiny
puddles, my
feet dry inside.
The rain fills
every hole in
the bricks,
making tiny
puddles, my
feet dry inside.
The street light
flowed wet
in the shimmering,
rainy night.
Sitting in the coffee
house waiting for my
chai.
“It was 1968, I invited
your father to speak
in Wisconsin.” He said.
We were so young,
never thinking
those days would be
so long ago.
Turned towards my
opponent, you bring
me luck, my yellow
fish. Multiples of five
in dominos. Aces,
face cards and wild
card spreads fill
my hand in
rummy five hundred.
Five in a row and five
more in my sequence
of luck.
Being together under
the cold blue moon.
Fleecy clouds
scud across the
sky. A rosy halo,
bright stars appear
and disappear.
The snow fell
relentlessly all afternoon
and through the night.
The next morning
they closed school for
two days. Trucks
jack-knifed on the
freeway. Meetings
were canceled.
I built a
snowman
on the hood of
my car.
My wins almost magical.
I count, touching the space
between my piece and
my goal. I call it and
throw the dice. They
spin and fall my
way.
Neither of my grandmothers
wore a bra. Their breasts flat
and low under cotton
house dresses or
stretchy black knits,
pleats and
gathers softening
the bodice.
Sometimes I dream
of family members
gone. Waking up, I
wonder
what stories were
never told.
Mornings I open the curtains,
turn on the heat
and light three
candles. Striking a match
on the box, I barely
avoid burning my
fingers as I light the
last one.