where's my apron and heels

"hah, suzy,"
she delighted over
the countdown to
crock pot beef stew
and the offhand comment
that i would like a
vacuum cleaner.
"what's happening in
Days of Our Lives?"
and she giggles when i
actually tell her.
"you watched it too,"
i say, (though she stopped
years ago),
"and that was okay,
'cause you're mom."
after which she points out
that i, too, am a mom
and i sputter and
stutter and
shut up because
she's right.

sunday school

what i remember
from the whole deal
was sitting behind a curtain
lining a table with
the other ten-year-olds
and i the only shy fidget
of the bunch
not willing to believe
what i was told
but more than happy
to recite matthew
mark luke john
yada yada yada
for a chance at that
pizza party
and really, what better
representation of heaven is there
than a large pepperoni?

good times, the best

the three of us huddled on the curb
by the antique shop, laden with
headphones and second hand love,
waiting for her mom's station wagon.

watching him finally leave
from my open upstairs window
the damp after-rain wind
drying the sweat to my skin.

out of my mind and high, sloppily
made up and long wild hair, grabbing
onto every human that appeared familiar
and squeezing out a thank you for being alive

pulling out of their driveway, late and
sleepy, full of mom's cooking, turning up
K's Choice with all the time in the world
to take it easy and drive home.