Praise Be

Praise be to the not-nearly-a-girl anymore
clerking at our local grocery outlet
since junior high. Single mom, moved up
after a decade of customer service
to manage four well-ordered aisles
of hairsprays, lipsticks, and youthful glow
in glittering squeeze tubes. Familiar
red-headed, brown-eyed, gap-toothed
smile. Willing to put aside her boxes of chores
to chat with each of us she names by heart.

I forget if she’s Mary or Alice or Jane.
Fine, I answer after she asks, How’s
your day? And driving my sacks
of next week’s meals home, I wonder
why she rises from her labors to greet me,
why she straightens her smock
where it’s pulled up a bit and rides her hips.
Tucks in place a loose wisp of curl.
When I walk by, what does she want to know,
when she asks, How’s your day?
I wonder why so seldom I’ve asked it back.

 

Lowell Jaeger, Or Maybe I Drift Off Alone (Shabda Press, 2016)