14th Street Shelter
i. Susan at seven
exuberant
as april
caramel curls
and a birthday
cake smile
she holds Zach’s
leash like it’s a
golden wand
like holding it
makes her golden too
we stroll
around the block
yak about ponies
what goes best
on chili dogs
down the street
two boys shoot hoops
the spring air
sweet
with their hollers
we pass a yard
bursting with bougainvillea
blossoms spill
onto the sidewalk
she tucks the leash
under one arm
picks a posy
hands it to me
with that smile
the one that helps me
forget for awhile
her mother’s a junkie
the dad fast with his fists
what helps her forget?
***
ii. decorations
two teenage girls
saunter down the hall
to check us out
Angie, a runaway,
with faux eyelashes
that unfurl like feather dusters
Melinda was picked up by
Child Protective Services
wears long purple fingernails
with sparkles
and earrings that dangle
as interested in Zach and me
as in reading
War And Peace
they sashay back to their room
to the epochal business
of hair and makeup
more like sisters in art
than adversity
they primp and spruce
bedeck themselves into
a merry brightness
like a pair
of slightly tarnished
Christmas ornaments
***
iii. king of the circle
always something or other
spilled on his shirt
Tommy’s an ocean of motion
zips around the parking lot
playground on a tricycle
in his “kiss ‘em and run” style
confers a ritualistic pat
on Zach’s head
with every pass
whizzes around
wheels on the ground
yet off in space
you can see it
in the tilt of his head
as if he’s about to ask “Why?”
but forgot the word
and from the look in his eyes
behind those thick glasses
like the world’s still a blur
***
iv. warm
now here’s Laurel
with the blueberry eyes
toddling toward Zach
her white-blonde hair flies
arms flap
i hold up my hand
like a crosswalk guard
remind her
“dogs aren’t rubber balls—
whoever heard of a rubber
ball with a tail?”
stooping beside her
I take her hand in mine
we stroke Zach’s back
feel his shaggy tenderness
under the lazy rhythm
of our hands
now child, woman, and dog
all melt a little
become each other’s sun
***
v. almost dark blues
dusk pouring
over the mountains
on the drive home
Zach in my rearview mirror
looking like a wilted sunflower
the kids’ hugs
still in his fur
later, in the unlit
living room
twilight stillness
I sip a burgundy
listen to B.B. King
and wonder why
I’m crying
is it these burnished
city blues—
the effervescence
of the kids
that splashes through
their hurt—
or Zach’s heart
that enfolds us all
with the ease
of a summer day?
***
©Lucy Aron, Friends Journal, 2004
