Morning On The Mall                                                                            

 

Fresh morning gold floods cement meadows.

Early cars swing into a seven A.M.  huddle,

Close to the concrete caves that swallow

Sunshine down their shadowy throats.

“Good-night”  “Good-night” the guards clock out,

With that chronic bounce of light lunacy,

Squinting, dazzled, disoriented.

Inside the tunnels the minions of the mall

Begin their fluorescent day,

Brewing, chewing, dusting, laying out their tills:

Worker moles buried in acres of tarmac.

 

A man and a boy pull up, wanting breakfast,

Not sure whether the mall is open yet.

Suddenly the boy shades his eyes and cries shrilly,

“Look, Dad!”

 

Across the empty parking lot wobbles a brilliant

Purple dress, with huge hairy legs

Balanced precariously on steep heels.

A flashy bracelet nestles into the furry wrist

That swings  in wide – brave – insolent arcs

A silver purse on a silver strap.

A ravenous wig darkly gobbles the sunbeams.

This gay spectacle – a comical show –

Pasting a  scarlet smile from midnight mascara

To the sparkling rings on his ears.

 

The word breezes through the mall,

Whipping up trash as it speeds down the halls

Until all the staffs (save those squatting on the loo

Scanning horoscope pearls) are pressed behind

The grilled glass doors, gaping.

“It’s a transvestite!” “Oh, Lord!” “Who is it?”

“It’s not Ed, is it?”  “Oh, my God!”  “What a freak!”

 

“Jeez, Dad,” says the kid. “It’s a homo

In woman’s stuff! Is he crazy!”

Dad shifts in his seat to get a better view.

He flushes, gropes for a handkerchief

Deep in his tight trousers,

And dabs the sticky sweat off  his lip

Pressing  the silky linen between his fingers.

“He knows what he’s doing’” he says.

“They come out of the woodwork at night -

Those people - to play with each other -

In the proper places.”

Dad clears his throat hoarsely.

“They’re disgusting at seven A.M.  - on the mall.”

 

“But, Jeez, Dad,” says the boy,

“What if he doesn’t want to play anymore?

What if he doesn’t care who knows?

What if he has to be a woman?”

The man looks sharply at his son, and says sternly.

“I know these things.”

He adjusts his side mirror to watch the ungainly progress

Of the wobbly heels.

“It is fantasy – pure fantasy.”

 

Wiping his hot face again, Dad says,

“It’s going to be a warm one today.”

Carefully he wipes  invisible crumbs from his lap

While adjusting his undershorts, grinning at his son.

He gets out quickly, clicks the locks behind him,

Waves to his boy who is watching  him intently,

And strides  across the parking lot.

The purple dress with night-mauve eyes

And Dad

Reach the main door at the same time.

Together they stand uncertainly before the grill.

The silver bag  rests quietly on its silver string.

Faces and bars blur through Dad’s tears.

The two men do not share a single glance.