Trailer Park Women
Just a smidgen. My mother’s fingers
pincered air smaller than her toothy grin.
By turns she sent me to ask one neighbour
and then another for the odd cup of sugar
or flour. Say we just ran out. Anyone could
see what was asked for more than a smidgen
the skosh she wanted. Dirty aprons housecoats.
No slammed screen doors. Never that flat out
NO! Never the knife edge of something
I didn’t know the name of but craved.
A hungry confirmation my family had grown
spots or fangs, clear signs, outside the pale.
Trailer park women brought up
polite to a fault hurried me in
handed over more than I could hold.
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