It was quiet, that voice
its softness doesn't even deserve a punctuation mark
i wish my mom would speak like that
a maternal and protective request
trying to keep little toes safe
that voice was a coolingbrewing cup of tea
from the second i heard it

new individual pushing the broom
around the cafeteria
cleaning up after us piggy students
a woman for a change
with a small but sturdy frame
age evident in her posture and movement
dark skin dark eyes
a grim expression on her face
a black durag wound tightly around her skull
and knotted at the back
with a silky square covering her neck
she leans and sways in order to clean under the tables
not making the studious hogs push them back and forth
unlike others before her
she moves like she's got something better
and more important to do
and whatever it is, i believe her
coming toward my table, the broom wheezing
i continue pushing my crayon down hard against paper
not wanting to bother her
or intrude on the life she leads
right behind me
her voice wedged itself in the air

"pick your feet up"

10/26/2011

Posted on 10/27/2011
Copyright © 2024 Amy Manning