By Mercedes Lawry
Forget the trick of shading your eyes,
giving a half-whistle over your shoulder,
tilting your head a few inches to the left.
You will not be mentioned, not among
the fat and groaning with jewels,
the slick and restless with their top shelf finery,
the old money and the new money.
You won’t be seen, noticed, cared for, cosseted.
You won’t be breaking through fences,
rising up through the glitter of broken glass,
invited to a Candyland in the desert,
a chalet, a beach paradise, a Tuscan villa.
You’ll be down in the dirt with the creatures
that crawl, burrowing under bushes, nesting
near roots, glad of the cool shade from
a licorice fern, of a stripe of sun between
stalwart Douglas firs.
Copyright Lawry 2022