Meg Ciccantelli Poetry 

Street Struggle

Meg Ciccantelli

While you make
money in
sunny
Singapore,
I am in my
Chicago kitchen
eating toast
with
spray butter,
trying to be
sensible.

I miss you.

Earlier today
walking
long, cold
narrow
city sidewalks
that took me
to you
and
our Monday meeting
came the
story
of a
modern family of four.

I stepped aside
on the crunchy snow
to let this
joyless
procession
pass.

It was a
mom and dad,
one white, one black,
late 20s
arguing the
forgotten details
of child-rearing
in this,
the 21st century.

She in
faux-fur coat &
salt-stained
spiked
booties,
navigated the
slippery street
path with impressive
precision,
and informed in a
clear strong voice
that He had
failed
miserably,
to get
the
milk.

He was
guilty
as hell. You
could
tell
by the
downcast
look on
his thin face,
and his pigeon-toed gait,
that this whole
kid thing, it
was way more
than he’d bargained for.

How had an online dating service
and a few drinks turned in
to all of this?

In his arms, he struggled to carry
an occupied car seat
swaddled in a torn blanket with
little Playboy Bunnies all over it
likely pulled in haste
from under the spare tire in the trunk
of the car (if they even had one)
but clearly
from another time in the relationship.
Coming up behind them,
the punctuation:
a small girl of 5 or 6, in a red coat,
dirty white rubber boots
and a special dress. Her large brown
eyes caught mine,
said simply, I’m with Stupid.

(Feature photo by  Mark Gallagher)