Dishwater face, wide-eyed
…‘How can I help?…'
Mopping up confusion
With a thousand tiny bubbles
And the quicker-picker-upper
In a world of coddled bodily functions
And biological time clocks
Where life is planted in photo albums
And harvested in cancer clinics
And holidays are spent on couches and chairs…
Her hands are white and pudgy
She says in Mother Mary's smile,
"Isle 16 near the back on the left side, hon"
Then disappears into fluorescence,
Seeping back into a package
Of shelf stable macaroni and cheese
Where she raises a family
Blessed by God
As can be witnessed by
The holy cows that graze
A magic circle around her town,
Not to mention the one on the box...
Maybe she is decorating an isle
With paperboard displays and rack toppers
Ornamented with plastic objects
Encased in blister wraps
And clamshells,
Or in cellophane wrappers
Suspended from tag hangers
Or perhaps she is a Valkyrie
Of the Dairy Goddess
Part cow, part giant woman, she
Mixes an enormous vat of curds and whey
Which somehow becomes our galaxy
the Milky Way…
