Monday, January 5, 2009

Sister Sunday


Slouching against the back of the padded booth
Katie rolls her eyes around her granny-style glasses
Disappointed with the soggy julienne salad
The waitress recommended
Lazy pigtails, fingers cut off her gloves
She piles the tomatoes onto her coffee cup saucer
Sneaks strips of processed cheese onto my plate
And guarded glances at the waitress’s dented, leathery face
A warning to smokers and meth addicts

At the thrift store next door we sing aloud
To the music pumped through overhead speakers
Unselfconscious, like in our own house
She tries on a red rooster tuque
Pink sweater from the men’s section
I scour the shelves for a book worth reading
Present it to her, proud
Like a trophy, dragon’s head
Shell out for a retro rhinestone belt
A tray that makes star-shaped ice cubes

The day feels both vivid and hazy, like a dream
Modern-day Norman Rockwell painting
My favourite kind of Sunday.

2 comments:

Dorkmaster Flek said...

Aw, that was a nice poem. You two are silly. :)

Urban Folk said...

Now this is touching, really. I am a cold-hearted bastard most days, but this one got to me. Partially it's because my memories of Katie are from a significantly earlier period, playing in the water at your parents' cottage while the sun went in and out of the clouds. She was a really good kid, and I can only assume she's become a cool young woman -- especially with the role model she's afforded. Awesome that you guys are close.