By Sandra Kolankiewicz
Soon I was coveting again: latest
Kenmore refrigerator, a larger
hot tub, fresh paper for the powder room.
All night I wanted upgrades: stove, glasses,
dryer, computer, satellite channels,
husband. The children slept snug in their beds,
stuck on Christmas, riding the eternal
Dreamland Express to the midnight discount
store. One day, the girl up the block parked a
bright Soul, dull Ford gone from her drive.
Someone in back installed a slate roof. Our brick
streets yielded as men in brand new reflective
vests rolled down clean tar. We didn’t care that
the routes were lined with cones, one-laned all
the way to the mall, just as long as asphalt
got things moving here. By then, families
with signs had gone back to Florida, the
food banks restocked with boxed macaroni.
Copyright Kolankiewicz 2011