Christopher
I can’t get the hang
of standingand handing
out the flyers.
I feel I am
being rude
when I say:
Do you know this store
buys from suppliers
who use sweatshops?
I can’t stand
seeing people’s eyes
hit the ground,
or the way they
tuck in their chins
and skulk through
the doors,
some grasping
the flyers, others
waving them away
like wasps.
I try to study
Annabelle
to see how she
does it, her technique
as smooth as honey,
always pleasant,
like she is handing
out candy
and not bad news.
Once or twice she smiles
at me, nods
to encourage me,
and it makes the day
worthwhile,
makes me glad
to be standing
in the October cold
trying to change
the world.
Watching her flick
her hair
out of her eyes
and blow the tips
of her fingers
to keep warm
makes me want
to wrap
myself around her
like the fuzzy blanket
my mom bought
at this store
last week.
At the end of the day,
frozen, we all stop off
for hot chocolate.
When Annabelle
blows a hole into
the whipped cream,
a dab of it clings
to her upper lip.
I want
to lick it off.
