At Eleven Helen Laughs For A Living.
by Janice Fine
Muffled giggles in all aisles
Helen's white conical dunce cap slipping over her eyes,
still she sits, stiff
on the unpainted, wood-latticed high stool -
cornered.
At the sound of the bell
free on her street
She curtsies, mimics the teacher, snickers,
sings, "It's a Must Unusual Day," to her 'customers.'
With Father's World War I helmet extended
she begs
for pennies from neighbors, "street walkers", strangers.
Her long fingers rake in the coins bulging from pockets,
the way a sluice in a swollen river holds back the gold.
Stays out past dark until
ravenous she runs to the roost.
Can not eat; watches her mother stare at her father,
long black facial hairs like chicken feathers unplucked.
Slumps over his bowl, oily strands of hair fall in.
Slurps his dark bean soup, wolfs down his stale roll
in the bleak Railroad Flat.
On Saturday night Helen spies him:
hair slicked back, Cologne splashed.
arms swinging, he jumps down the broken steps,
turns the corner to Lady Luck.
Hatred denies her a moment to douse cold water
on dark eyes burning like sparks of coal from the cellar furnace.
Someday shell leap over the shattered steps,
turn the corner to her Lady Luck.