Happy Whistler

I’m not fast enough for her. I could blame it on pregnancy brain, if I knew it wasn’t the state of my regular brain. She’s twenty years old and she knows what’s going on. She’s alluring, captivating—sharp as a Henkel knife. She dresses hip-hop, has the perfect quips and is world-wise beyond her twenty years. She has a conviction about everything—if not a conviction, then a momentarily gained stance that can’t be shaken. She rattles me.

If I miss a beat, she’s on it. If I whistle, she tells me to stop. I tried to help her finish a job she started and she informed me that I could find my own job. She has no qualms about putting me in my place. And then I stumble. I drop a metal steaming jug on the floor. I use skim milk instead of whole. I scatter beans on the counter.

I know I can be a bit of a dreamer. I know I am even a bit unusual. I stare into space at times, absorbed by my musings. But let me ask you, if someone’s whistling while they work with gaiety, whose rights take precedence? The happy whistler or the one annoyed by cheer?

Indomitable Orphan

An indomitable orphan,

One who believes she belongs,

Hums every day loudly

And slaps out tunes on her guitar,

And says hello to everybody,

Without slagging the bold guy

Who tells her he’s humble.

She sees art in the alleys,

And has faith,

And smiles when status quo says, “be guarded,”

And cries a lot too, over little precious things.

I’d like to stamp my feet

And stand in a raincloud

After what was just done to me.

I’d like to hide under my covers until one o’clock.

I see the orphan get up,

And make pancakes,

And kiss the neighbor lady’s cheek,

And walk to work to face another day,

And I want to be like her.