Camilla's Constitutional

Aunt Camilla

CAMILLA'S CONSTITUTIONAL

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A thin layer of broken glass
protects her feet from the soft asphalt.

And when she walks, it comes as no surprise
that blunders swoop and shout her name.

"Get out of the way, Camilla," they say.

Still, she kisses them every morning,
sheep's wool and wax in her ears,
touching here a shoulder, there, a cheek,
tenderly as a lover or favored aunt.

"Oh."

It's the evenings, when she balances on the tightrope
between day and night, that make for longer, quieter sighs.

And when she retires early, she compares everything she owns
to the sound of the boy who trills his greeting upward
to the window of the girl who waits, anxious for his pursed lips' call,
and the ice cream truck, which pauses at each corner
billowing incessant renditions of Turkey in the Straw four bars long.

A bass in monotone, beats a salsa to her own four-stroke engine,
that occasionally falters in the near dark, the heat so wide,
childrens' laughter cannot cross it, even with the hydrants open.