Poem To Myself At 30
I see you change out of your whites
in the cooks’ bathroom where
a florescent tube, almost burnt-out
flickers like Charlie Chaplin. Garlic
stings your cuticles, a clingy musk
under the lavender hand soap
someone else brought in. Take off
your bandana, shake out your flat hair,
and open the door to the sudden
comfort of the wide black sky
overhead: no moon, but stars and
stars and stars. The bread order
is placed, tomorrow’s vegetables
safe in the dill-scented walk-in. Try
not to listen to your mother. It’s fine
to be happy with this. See? Your
old red car still runs smoothly.
Its radio is tuned to a friendly song,
and the drive uphill and home
shorter and kinder than you think.
by Christine Potter, from Unforgetting, (Kelsay Books, 2018)
buy link: https://www.amazon.com/Unforgetting-Christine-Potter/dp/194746597X
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