Glass On Glass
Monday
I am your best friend filling
your red wagon with 23 speckled
glass marbles, sitting like indians
and drawing circles in sand,
laughing at tiny collisions.
Tuesday
I am your mother, leaving
your father screaming in the doorway,
filling your questions with silence
and your hunger with soup-kitchen
cereal and homeless-shelter beds.
Wednesday
I am the teenage arm around your
waist, the hair beneath
your hands, an echo of the pounding
bass. You float in a cloud of bliss
or lilac perfume.
Thursday
I am the the woman next door
getting the newspaper in a fraying coral robe—
so desperately angry—leaning over a fence
to shake one withered finger
at your child’s infernal noise.
Friday
I am your daughter clutching
a lollipop in one sticky hand,
your pant leg in the other, dancing
on your toes, laughing.
“Why are you smiling, Daddy?”
Saturday
I am your best friend gripping
the rails of a hospital bed.
I am shudders and weak reassurance,
a spindly hand in yours,
and the long-forgotten clink
of glass on glass.
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