Sunday Scribblings: Three Wishes

Three Wishes, Circa 1987
Also Known As Donut Shop Dreams

Wishes hang
like paper-carved snowflakes
on strings
from a water-stained, coffee shop ceiling.

Amid the persistent clatter of service
donuts in boxes
coffee sloshing in cups
cups slipping on saucers,
there is the warmth of belief,
like peppermint schnapps,
Vick's Vapor rub,
candy cane heat.

Pause to wipe a counter,
make a wish:
to be beautiful,
or not so much to be beautiful
as not to be ugly:
erase washed-out complexion,
frizzy hair,
short lashes framing
dull eyes.

Extra attention to
a stain of glaze,
knead, scour, scrape,
wish number two:
Manhattan, a poet's life,
reams of paper, lug a typewriter
up the stairs of a walk-up,
words racing,
a trail of exhaust, like emotion,
across the avenue
of a page.

Tuck wisps of hair under visor,
toss the rag in the sink,
tread slowly back to the register,
and wish number three:
to be young, stay young, feel young
Remember what it was like
at 2 a.m. beside the Christmas tree
the night before--
rinsed in the bath of light,
cleansed by joy--
wrap that moment,
and believe that it was only yesterday,
five, ten, twenty years from now.

Take money,
change jangles into the drawer,
peel back bills
and hand them away,
write stories inside a head,
transactions printed on receipts
more tangible than hope.

Dream of making it all real
someday.
Hold it close,
like a child clutching a cinnamon stick,
the night cook, ripping open his paycheck,
a baby, reaching high from her father's arms,
to grab a paper-carved snowflake,
which dangles, as delicate
as a wish.

For more Sunday Scribblings, click here.