Perhaps I went to the market
where the cashier appears
either blind or religious as 
she rings up the produce;
her eyes barely open 
though the whites are visible
as though she has caught
the spirit, on the cusp of
pronouncing witness. I might 
have gone to the drug store 
on the corner; I’m invested 
in the relationship I’ve cultivated 
with the pharmacist. She says
she wishes all her customers 
were as understanding and patient 
as I am. She obviously doesn’t 
know me, but my husband 
and I are in so thick with 
the prescriptions, it doesn’t
hurt to leave her in this blessed
ignorance. I probably was  
congratulating myself for adapting
so well to life here: No car,
much walking, always taking
the subway like a champion.  
I could have been eating
lettuce, crisp and glinting
with a special confidence.
Most likely I was writing a poem
about my father, the switchblade 
he used to weed the lawn as if
single-handedly taking on our 
enemies, the hoards scheming
to separate us from all that he
had fought for, also known as
the great unwashed, unemployed, 
underprivileged, and of course 
the Communists. We kids thought 
that conflict was forever, without
conclusion, and once finished, 
only better minds than ours would
be in on the glory and celebration.