She’s wearing her blue dress, the best
one she owns and she knows it’s still
not good enough but it’s all she’s got –
that and a smile. And the man asks
how to spell her name, and it doesn’t
sound the same on his tongue, like she
doesn’t quite recognize her own syllables.
Her shoes pinch and it’s a cinch that
this one-page self-syllabus in her hand
of all she’s been and is and ever will be
won’t be enough, but she’s tough and so
she’s here, all wrinkled linen and hope.