Making Do

I learned the art of making do
from parents who excelled at this— 
ingenious at devising ways to live
rarely straining meager means.

I didn’t wear the brand-name
clothes I coveted, my seamstress
mother stitching, my father
tinkering with wires and water pipes,
meticulous and focused.

Books came from the library
and the Chevy had no power
brakes or air conditioning.
Fridays, dad would drop
a silver dollar in my bank;
later, these would pay for college.

Saturdays, we’d sup on gribines
smeared on warm rye--
soft yellow chicken fat
with onion cracklings.
The pushkah in the kitchen
filled with nickels, pennies,
meant for people
whose needs were greater
than our own.
My father planted radishes
and roses on our patch of lawn.
​
And yet at Christmas we’d drive out
to snowy suburbs, making a tour
of graceful houses, looking
through picture windows
garlanded with light, where
families gathered by the tree,
its wrapped and ribboned packages,
all in a Technicolor halo
the television cast on this
creche of the American dream.