Sweet-Everythings
I hear them before I see them,
those little orange boots adorning
Her feet like stars dancing
across my vision.
I know it’s Her because Her steps echo
in the linoleum halls on Sundays, gold buckles jangling
like whispers of a tambourine
as she hums a hymn of sweet-everythings.
But God is neither here nor there, only Her
laugh as we shimmy between classrooms
between bells that don’t exist,
covered in fine, powdery, chalky moondust.
She waltzes inside the grey house
at the cul-de-sac lined with white pine. Inside,
tables groan under mismatched china,
motherland food, pride, and ambition.
Our shoes wait by the door.
She weaves through hungry admirers
enchanting until She finds
Her favorite noodles.
Her sashay is too big for our small town
built on the sleepy sands of the drifting Niantic:
static, suburban, offering nothing but that New England charm
and Ice Cream Shoppe on main street.
We follow Her
little orange boots around.
Anyone can tell She will go places.
I hope we meet again.
Preamble
Model: Some Kind of Crazy by Major Jackson
Narrator: First person, present tense
Mood: Love | Tone: Heightened language and loads of details
Posts in this series
Butterflies
Sweet Everythings
The Magic Notebook
chrononaut
Closing Time
Both of us holding our breath