How revealing. A woman roots
between the car seats for her folded twenty or the severed limb
of a sleepytime pet that her man
had yanked free for Becky or Andrew or Tina Marie. Or perhaps
it’s the house key fallen off its ring.
Or say she digs for the ignition key he’ll need before night shift.
On she tunnels, cussing, confident
she has no audience. As she dives deeper a street photographer
captures her bottom full as a bloated
moon, opened parachute, or lumpy cushion bursting at its seams.
Almost intimate, the slow way she
wriggles out the car door. Her sociological dig unearths a missing
button from a faded hand-me-down
handed off, granite gum wads and a moldy grape jelly glaze. Yet
another thankless task for a woman
who had aptitude, got things done. Hadn’t she been there for her
family and neighbors who now stare
with the cold eye of news reporters? What, she says, what is it.
For once, no comeback as Fishy
Ms. Effie wipes stray whiskers with the back of her damp hand
while old man Lis openly smirks.
If this woman sees her car in a Helen Levitt exhibit, will she
recognize this side of herself?
Margo Davis finds herself often returning to her first love, ekphrastic poetry, for its rich narrative. Recent poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Deep South Magazine, and MockingHeart Review. A three-time Pushcart nominee, Margo's forthcoming chapbook will be published by Finishing Line Press in late-fall.
The Ekphrastic Review
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