Kyra sends me
a picture of herself
in Oklahoma
standing beside
the world’s largest peanut.
Grace, sitting at her usual table,
overhears me telling Ruby Frances about it.
She calls me over.
“I was born in Oklahoma,” she says.
“Oklahoma City.”
I try to picture Grace—
homeless Grace—as a baby.
I can’t.
And yet I know she must have been
a baby once.
A pink bundle,
cooing and crying,
splashing and napping.
Maybe even shaking her feisty little fist
at the tough old world.
So,
what happened?