By: Arvilla Fee

Once Around the Block

Lenny’s eyes sag, his chin sags;
he’s just one sad sack of bones
bound to a wheelchair.
Bored—bordering on depression.
No family. No visitors. Stuck.
Come on, Lenny, I say.
He lifts bushy gray eyebrows,
casting me a look of reproach,
as if I’m taking him to Bingo.
But as soon as I key in my code
making the front doors whoosh open,
Lenny grins and fist pumps the air.
I start slowly, but Lenny calls me Gramps,
so, I push faster, cringing as we hit the cracks.
Get in the road, Lenny barks. It’s smoother!
I check for cars then take off, almost at a jog!
Lenny squeals and holds up his hands
like he’s riding a roller coaster.
A car comes up behind us, and I start to move,
but Lenny yells that we have the right-of-way.
The driver pulls up beside us, grinning and waving.
Then another car comes along, then another.
They all drive by slowly, honking and cheering
like we’re in a parade and Lenny has won Fair King.
Back at the building, Lenny’s lean face is flushed,
and his white hair is standing up in little tufts.
That was the best road trip ever! Lenny says.
I cannot agree more.

A Bicyclist in Amsterdam

I wait at the crosswalk—
cars and bicycles hurtling past,

a cacophony of bodies,
metal and human flesh,

a tableau of chaos, and yet
there, in the hurried midst…

a lady in a green dress,
pedaling her bike,

nearly ethereal,
emerald silks billowing,

back erect, chin tilted.
I envy her finesse,

the little wooden basket
that holds her groceries.

I try to imagine myself
on that same bike,

effortlessly navigating
cobblestone and traffic

—but I’m wearing jeans
and a t-shirt, standing,

a clumsy American tourist,
bikeless since childhood.

Mama and Papa’s Dance

A new record spun on the player,
round and round, round and round
while Papa waltzed Mama across
our citrine-yellow carpet.

I could see them from my perch
in the little window that divided
the living room from kitchen,
my feet dangling over the edge.

Mama threw her head back
and laughed; Papa dipped her
like one does an ice cream cone
in chocolate shell coating.

I loved it all—the Beatles,
the stack of 45s, the floral couch,
Mama’s skirt swishing just below
her knees, Papa’s overalls.

But it couldn’t last, could it—not
my childhood, not their dancing
because bills come due, more
babies come due, nerves frayed,

and tempers flared. Papa drank,
Mama cried; her hands grew red
from doing other people’s laundry,
just to keep collectors off the porch.

Our olive-green fridge rarely held
enough milk; it was hard to come by,
and the government only issued
so much cheese and bread.

Papa stopped smiling, worry lines
replacing smile lines, and Mama
stashed her dresses in the closet
and started wearing pants.

###

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College, and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse).