Waiting For A New
Turn Signal Switch

By Marjorie Power

Tishku moves through hills
a few miles from here. I can't see her
but a moment ago I didn't
see the hills, either. Fog,
lifting, caught my eye.

            A phone rings and the girl
            who answers calls him sweetie.
            When she hangs up, a passing car salesman
            becomes sweetie; now, someone she dials
            in the parts department.

The view outside clears.
Tishku must be breathing hard,
climbing fast. There--her dress
shows, the dark green one
embroidered with gold.

            The girl dressed in the color of
            sticker shock says she's sorry
            my car is taking all morning,
            she could get one of the guys
            to drop me at the mall.

Suddenly Tishku is at my shoulder.
I can't see her, but the smell
of damp September earth
has come inside, this close.
Go hear her story, she whispers.

            Approaching the counter I find:
            I don't mind waiting here.
            And a stranger truth: I like
            what you've done to your fingernails.
            It must be hard to paint stars.


From Tishku, After She Created Men, Lone Willow Press, 1996


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