WednesdayI September

An old woman.
Reaches out,
And the girl falls straight in.

Bent double with Iceland supplies.
She shrugs down at her heavy basket:
Oats,
Malted beer six pack,
Full fat milk,
Olive oil,
Honey Nut Clusters.

Mismatched shiny nylon,
Hemming in a lush old body.
Bosoms the size of watermelons,
A body full of the suns of ages:
School yard grazes,
Teenage flushes blushing under wet palms,
The first baby.
And the last.
A heart deeper than all the love.

Popping eyes,
Brown,
One popping more to the left.
Natty hair neat under a hankerchief.

A tender face.
Full of human grace.
Lit from within.
Lit up for the girl.