In memory of G.M.P.
Miami, Florida, 1942.
The second summer after my dad died
Mom introduced to us a man she liked.
He wore a see-through belt that mystified
Giggling, Mom said, “You are really ‘psyched’.”
He pulled it from his keepers and he let
me wrap it twice round mine . . . I peeped through it —
it sniffed a little like a cigarette.
I gave it back. Round him, it truly fit.
Next time he came he wore a plain black belt . . . .
Big Sis unwrapped a ‘brooch’, and I a see-
through belt like his! It fit!
Mom said, “Real svelte,
Chuckling deeply, he said, “Oui!”
“But where is yours?” I gazed in his brown eyes.
“Around your waist. I had it cut to size.”
If you have any comments on this poem, Leland Jamieson would be pleased to hear them.