At the Library (for Grace Paley)
My son wants me to ask for the one about World War II
with a piano and a girl?
On the cover a kind of bird: white, he says.
After eleven years, I tell him to go ask himself
But the young woman, typing in a search for
another, lifts her finger to wait his turn.
A nickel short on the meter costs me a ten dollar ticket.
Today I found myself between the self-help and the children’s section
At the edge of cartoon covers with teddy bears and
calico kittens whose parents drink too much.
There I was in the pictures, mother and daughter at once
Like paper dolls we wear each other’s dresses.
And later, after a second bottle of cabernet sauvignon, I say
good job on finding the book you wanted.
He says, they didn’t have that one. And your teeth are
red.