The Lady with the Rolling Trash Can
I ask her,
How many lives have you lived?
And she answers,
One on each street corner
of the Lower East Side.
There’s a glint in her eye
that speaks
of a childhood
twirling under a loose fire hydrant,
arms stretched like eagle wings,
like the water can hook under armpits
and carry her up, up
to a sky a little cooler
than down on this
sizzling cement;
Mama called for me to grab my shoes,
but I was already so far out the door.
I see
a hand-me-down armoire and
a mirror lit all around the edges
in little light bulbs,
almost all bright like tiny stars,
hair twisted up and pinned,
a teen of smooth edges
and fine lines,
cardinal lipstick
and chiffon skirts.
Her eyes tell me of
the boy she met
between cup sizes
who showed her
how to use her hands
in funny ways—
his mouth could make her feel
like glitter,
heated and glistening,
spilling over edges—
it made up for all the other stuff.
I saw a tumble downward,
a heel caught in a sidewalk crack,
and a panicked stagger past
Seward Park
and the new Whole Foods on East Houston,
past the shiny apartments she can’t recognize,
her arms outstretched
for traction,
and instead gathering seasons,
stigma,
something to roll
that won’t hurt her back,
and lives to replay
behind lenses in her eyes
as days pass, just as they do.
I offer a smile, and a dollar,
this woman who I know,
and carry on home
until I see her again
tomorrow.