Annabelle
I don’t want to be ordinary.
You see ordinary people everywhere:
at the grocery store, loading their carts,
looking tired, checking the prices,
shuffling along like zombies.
Or where my mom and I have breakfast
every Sunday. We always get the waitress
with frizzy hair and she always asks the same thing,
Sunny-side-up or over-easy.
I wonder what her life is like:
does she have talents
she didn’t nurture
or did she always dream
of waiting on tables
at the Greek deli
where bloated pickles
float in humongous jars?
When I ask my mom
she tells me not to be a snob,
then she shakes her head at me
like she can’t figure out why
I wonder about such stupid things.
I think she forgets what it’s like
to worry about your future
and ponder what kind of life
you might have one day
when you have no talent
and when you’re an idiot,
because you can’t walk past
a lounge just because
your ex-best friend is there
on the other side, inside
a group you were both in awe of
just last year.
Mr. Dawe says I have a talent
for organizing people
and motivating them
to take action.
But can I make a future out of that?