Hometown Girl at 30

Someone more romantic might say
it has to do with the rhythm of spoons,
the toy piano sound of silverware
tossed onto a table.  Someone else might
say it has to do with the way I move
across the floor, my thick-hosed legs aching
to be quick.  All I can say is I like

waiting tables where truckers gulp my strong
coffee, tell lies they hope will loosen
my grip, lure me into their cabs come dark.
Sometimes I’m sorely tempted, and I’ve gone
to a few who were young and good-looking
and on their way to somewhere I might get
a card from.  I like the big button

I wear pinned to my chest–Try Our Famous
Cherry Cheesecake–I like the way I make
things shine (napkin dispensers, the easy
necks of catsup bottles, the long counter
I rest my body against).  I like the noise
of Alvie in the kitchen singing
“Delta Dawn,” the sweet smell of onions

Roberta chops for chili, I love knowing
I’m at home here, another small town girl
with big dreams.  I love knowing that someday
I will walk out of here on the arm
of someone with promise, that everyone
will miss me, will say, Whatever happened
to that local gal who told those stories?

Filed under: Poetry