by Pattie Seely
Back then I didn’t know
that I would miss them so dearly
those women behind the counters
of accomplished age bathed
in Chanel and flaunting
their red French twists.
They had long, pale necks above
white, angora sweaters where
well-structured braziers held
each sharp breast separate,
rigid, and unyielding.
They wore black pencil skirts
just below their knees
and from there the seams
of their stockings drew
a perfectly straight line
to their black stiletto heels.
Their cheeks were exceedingly rouged
and their thin-lipped smiles red,
sticky and pleasantly sincere.
I miss those women
and the other women too, the ones
in their blue wash of white hair
and tweed suits
and poetic cloche hats
gathering in the tower
and opening their slinky change-purses
to chicken pot pies and stroganoff.
I miss the creaky wooden floors
and elaborate Christmas displays
that waited until Thanksgiving dinner
was respectably digested.
I miss clothes made in America.
I miss the city bus stop there
at the umbrella entrance to the store
filled with the clamor of people
before suburban malls offered
free parking and junk-food courts.
I miss the smell of the buses
and the phsssst sound of air brakes,
the wisps of perfumed ladies
sitting straight in their high-backed seats
and the stale smoke of cigarettes
hanging on to cheerful old men
grasping the leather ceiling straps as
they stood in the aisles, bouncing.
Oh, and the sounds of the buses
as they squeaked and jerked
over the pits and potholes in the roads.
I miss the smoke shop
in the corner of that store
where handsome old gentlemen
sold pipes and fine cigars
and the men in the suit shop,
elegantly bathed in strong cologne,
dressed as if going to the Met.
I miss the days of crystal chandeliers
hanging over glass cases of fine chocolates,
over the silent mannequins,
and over those enchanting ladies
in their wistful Marilyn smiles
greeting us like rosy dolls
with cracked-porcelain cheeks.
