Hooray for Thursday I shouted
in my pipsqueak voice
knowing Friday can't be far behind.
Rushing off to school
rustle of corduroy knickers
whooshing back and forth
dreading daily inspections
by my second grade teacher,
who looked like a runaway
Gypsy with ebony black
eyes and blood red nails
striding up and down the ailse
costume jewlery jangling
glittering in the morning sun
examining little ears and fingernails as we
bent our heads in a yoga-like stretch.
What did you eat for lunch?
Only bologna on Silvercup
I always replied,
having witnessed what my classmates ate
which the German Bundt rallying around
I worried my mother's lambchops
and backed potato might sound Levantine
Exultant every Friday
rescue and rehab provided by mother
at three o'clock, scurrying off to
Hilgren's Ice Cream Emporium
lapping up huge Mellaroll frappes
served on a marble-topped counter
worthy of a royal palace.
Friday evening meant the local movie,
collecting a yellow and orange uninspired floral
patterned dish each week, building
a whole set that languished in the
basement for decades.
When the house was auctioned off
dealers duelled for the dishes
which had become a collectible treasure.