2002/strangers

I don’t like
talking
to strangers,
as a rule.
The grubby,
gray-haired
woman tells us
she grew up
in an elegant
neighborhood.
Her dirty bag
and nappy pants
say it failed
her.
She has a nice
house, she says
but there are
the Mexicans
to contend
with.
And then she dives
into some other
piece of madness
about real estate
agents and
mess to clean
up.
I think it is
something
about my face,
that prompts
all this disclosure.
The mother whose son
wants to buy
a book
called Backyard
Ballistics,
ten and a half
going on eleven
she says,
and begins the tale
of someone
she knew
who lost a hand,
an eye,
I forget what else,
do not know how
this information
serves her
with her son.

1/21/02