Office Visits

Mother,
in polyester skirt, nylons and pumps bought at Penney’s,
went to high school
with my two older brothers.
Her days spent as one of three
secretaries in the principal’s office:
typing, filing, answering phones.
Students A through J.
Seven-thirty to three with summers off.

Four years my brothers sauntered the fluorescent, locker-strewn hallways
between shop class, biology, U.S. history
and wrestling and track practice.
My brothers on their best behavior
(most days)
“because their mother works in the office.”
But sometimes –
when their plans for a 100%, no way, no chance of getting caught plan
failed,
they were filed into the office,
having committed any of a slew of teenage offenses,
to await Principal Carter.

The two of them:
slumped in cold metal folding chairs;
my mother’s simple presence,
and their punishment already begun.

She never looked up.
Eyes and finger tips flying across her beige Smith Corona
as if these wiry boys whose ceaseless fidgeting she couldn’t help but see out of the corner of her eye weren’t anything more to her than the stream of faceless teenagers who had been marched in yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before that.
Troublemakers.

To my brothers’ dismay, my father remained naive to their exploits.
Unsure whether it was a blessing or a curse,
Over dinner, my brothers would wait, anxious. Again fidgeting.
Would she speak of it?
No, not this time.
Nervous glances across the yellow checked tablecloth.
Should they dare ask for another serving of mashed potatoes?
Better not push it.
Doing dishes. Best behavior.
Freedom.

Later, lying in bed in the dark night,
my mother, smiling,
would whisper every last detail in my father’s ear.
And my father, ever the quiet one, would chuckle.

You First Inquired in the Kitchen

You first inquired in the kitchen,
shredding chicken for enchiladas:
"What about children?"

"What about them?" I quipped,
already knowing your intent.

"How many?"
"One," I blurted.
"Or ten."

You smiled.

"When?" You pressed.
"Someday."
"Soon?" You pressed harder.
"Someday."

"Some day you're going to have two hearts inside of you."

Red Jackets

Red jackets
and noses
and broad shovels
piled with winter's white work

turn into playthings
in the right hands.