Not the lone glory of an orange basking in Depression’s dusk— its fluted bowl of purple glass
Nor the fall ways of amber Leaves burned by roadside curling smoke’s sun-lit sash
Not tree-lined streets rabid leaves’ raspy voices whirling giddy in the wind—
...in none of these
But in the moments I filled with fixing a lamp shade painting this place to a stern perfection
...I thought of you ordering the tyranny of me the glass of me the concrete conscience I must be right! Mustn’t I?
The religion of our lives Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring feeding the ducks and a roast at noon Waffles and TV later Lassie and You Asked For It Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve
I asked for it, alright
He came and went to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva
He came and went larger than life and first on the scene to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races and of course—THE SHOP! in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars
He was terrifying! Wonderful!
We would love at a pained distance
His cabinet in the cellar was always locked But now, just suppose—
if a kid were to haul on its handles... supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar with the thunder of him!
And those late nights those harsh ****** lights lidded hundred watt cones in the spotlight of THERE where I wasn’t in the odor of oils too noxious to dare beyond the girlish shadows—
he cleaned his guns
I waited and watched where everything seemed to be What...? It seems—he just pushed her against a wall! I step from girlhood with my two-cents worth and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!
I take my vows! I swear I will not scrape wax from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!
I have waited. I have watched the routines of his mornings He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat I can tell you the creak of the stairs and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house
...the routine of his return at supper the routine of anger My routine of being late— and as good as dead squeezing behind— HIS CHAIR Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud Praying for the epiphany of his good mood when the TV and me--
wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation
We were not Polish, but my Dad's French-Canadian family lived in a Polish community. Thus, the fused culture and all the happy, Sunday Polka music.
Lassie, You Asked For It, and Queen For a Day were popular TV programs of the 1950s.