Butling Mrs. Goldberg

I put Sanka on the serving tray,

choose a spoon from the hoard

the hag’s collected in a drawer,

pull a sheet of Bounty and fold in thirds.

I rest my load on her threadbare chair.

Mrs. Goldberg’s kitchen range is limited,

being of its time (c. 1950).

Still, it chugs on like a steam engine,

warming the cold kettle, tics and sighs.

I can certainly wait, I mean, my god,

I’ve been on permanent pause

since she fell in the flower bed,

and cracked her pelvis

as she ended the perennials.

She cried out, and

I said I’m here for you, Miss.

I’m here.

I wipe my eyes with a kerchief,

straighten bowtie and peer at face creases

reflected in toaster sheen

while the teakettle screams.

I creak back up to weary feet

and fill her mug with searing steam.

Hoisting the tray, I shuffle the long hall,

the shining foyer. I climb the endless stair.

Outside her bedroom door,

my knuckles hang in the air.

I brace against the maddening repetitions.

(Ah? Who is it?

Well, who the hell could it be, old woman?)

I clear my throat

…bought smile

…gentle knock.

Miss?

Miss?

First published in The Fulcrum Online 2005-2006, ed. 1