Cross Creek Rosie
Aunt Mary’s sprawling wrap-around porch
hid curious six-year-old me.
Peeking over the baluster rail,
I spied Cross Creek Rosie passing by,
tall and stately, walking purposefully
down Jefferson Avenue.
Her constant companions,
rumors and cruel taunts,
pursued alongside.
In an era lacking preferred pronouns,
she was exotic intrigue,
inquisitive mystery,
a Pandora’s box of queries,
the circus orchestra
rife with colorful discordant notes.
Flamboyant scarlet turban,
deeply rouged cheeks, fiery red lipstick,
black mascara adorning manly features,
gypsy-like blouse spattered in rainbow hues,
black toreador slacks.
My tiny heart ached for her.
Small hand lifted in greeting,
I whispered, “Someday I want to be like you.”
Would I ever walk confidently in my own skin?
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