Wednesday, October 13, 2004

The Attendant

Loose snow worries the husks.
The doughnuts have been delivered
at the gas station.
What was she thinking before?
Was she tired of sweeping?
Inside there at this hour,
almost everywhere the windows
are mirrors. The displays
look so neat, look limited.

She has arranged the few aisles,
though some can only be seen
from certain positions.
They are almost private.
She feels looked at often.
She sees herself;
solitude magnifies her prettiness.

She imagines herself sometimes,
stocking the cooler from behind,
to be not really visible.
A customer reaching in
for a brand would see a slice
of hair, of chest or waist.
She is body parts then, more than body.

She likes her body. She regrets
her eyes on her face. So much
better to have a snail shape.
Their eyes on stalks can see each other.
She likes to imagine between them
the possibility of a sneaky friendship.

by Marc Rahe

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