Like This

POETRY

by Linda K. Sienkiewicz

Halfway to yoga class I realize I forgot
my mat so I turn the car around
and head home for it. I need
music. After tossing cassette tapes
across the front seat, the right song
is missing. One hand on the wheel, I fuss
to get the tapes back in their cases.
A car horn blasts. I look up to a red light,
brake lights, street lights, neon LIQUOR signs.
I run the light, switch lanes, a Cadillac swerves.
Time runs out. I want
a cigarette, but I can’t smoke because
Mother’s here. She looks me up and down
and tells me to cut my leotards at the ankles
so they look nicer. Nicer than what?
I want to cook dinner, can’t find
the right bowls, pots, pans, where
is the wooden spatula?
At the front window strangers peer in
at me, then they’re running through
rooms, sitting in my chairs, moving tables,
quarrelling over decor. A man with yellow
teeth yanks my venetian blinds up and down,
up and down, saying Yeah, yeah, I like this.
I demand to know what real estate agency they work
for, they can’t just walk into people’s homes.
A woman dictates the phone number.
I carefully write it down but the last number
is a flower. I grab a laundry basket
and fold clothes instead. A girl tells me
she tried to find the same yellow
flowered overalls as mine but came up short.
I tell her It’s hard sometimes.
On the counter is a spilled flower arrangement,
dripping water on the floor. I gasp, Mother!
Did you see this? and try to fix
the flattened blossoms. I can’t
with her watching me. She decides to cook
dinner, sharpens a knife in a sharpener
so large I’m astonished we have such a thing.
She takes the flowers from me,
says I’m doing it wrong. Here. Like this.