Praise be

Praise Be

Praise be to the not-nearly-a-girl anymore

clerking at our local grocery outlet

since junior high. Single mom, moved up

after a decade of customer service

to manage four well-ordered aisles

of hairsprays, lipsticks, and youthful glow

in glittering squeeze tubes. Familiar

red-headed, brown-eyed, gap-toothed

smile. Willing to put aside her boxes of chores

to chat with each of us she names by heart.

I forget if she’s Mary or Alice or Jane.Fine, I answer after she asks, How’syour day? And driving my sacks

of next week’s meals home, I wonder

why she rises from her labors to greet me,

why she straightens her smock

where it’s pulled up a bit and rides her hips.

Tucks in place a loose wisp of curl.

When I walk by, what does she want to know,

when she asks, How’s your day?

I wonder why so seldom I’ve asked it back.