The Mid-Afternoon of Her Childhood
By Ephraim Scott Sommers
A Mexican girl barefoots up 43rd,
Dollar blossoming from fist
And the wind chimes quiet
As the ice cream van hiccups
Along to the soundtrack of popsicles
And the chinking of sprinklers
Who have found it possible to stretch a rainbow across a lawn.
Are you my Ophelia? The mailman whispers
To the housewife,
And the distance from sidewalk to front porch
Becomes something like a kind of Nile,
In which any number of people, at any moment, could likely drown.