small town bliss.

I try not to visibly wince
as my eyes wrestle against
tracking the faux-blonde
as she bobbles and sways
across the floor
a cheap demonstration
with men stupidly ogling
her tacky heels clacking in time
with the jangle
of the gold tone buckles
on her leopard print bag
the size of Toledo
I recognize her stale perfume
it hovers above the
smell of roast coffee
mother of the little snot nosed brat
who spat at my son
last week on the playground
I know her Escalade is parked out front
boxing in my car
and I’ll try not to leave
black paint on her bumper


© 3.29.12 heather brager