Irene Cooper
No-vember
Gas station guy eyes me dead, juts me his peach fuzzed chin before back-handing my card.
Wet and dark, panhandler out Safeway says thanks, you’re the first. Wears a nice Columbia fleece and good boots, easy scavenged in a ski town. I worry he looks too good, but it’s poor that pisses people off.
Old showgirl leaks memory like a cracked pitcher, mourns minstrel shows with father, Young Republicans, the boiled blood of an Irish Dem mother.
Madmen and women froth with victory or grief. I‘d like to excuse myself, but this is my house.
Irene Cooper lives and writes in Oregon.
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