1959

At the Patio Cafeteria in the Glendale mall
where we ate every Thursday for a year
the three of us when I was maybe seven

the screen that formed the wall to contain the line
was structured of interlocking circles, linked
in chains of chains, implying patterns
upon patterns to my hungry, childish eyes

gold-burnished aluminum it kept
me staring, studying, following the complicated lines
all the way to the register and the woman
at the cashier’s station, who sat
between customers, for it wasn’t ever busy Thursday night
knitting and knitting and knitting
once with dark blue ribbon, flat and wide

fascinating!

after the food from the clever bright steel steam tables
consumed at a table for four, though we were three,
and dessert—pudding or pie on heavy plates
from nests in fields of chipped ice
and all beneath the glass canopy with lights,
just higher than my head and the parallel stainless pipes
that channeled us with our round-cornered trays to her
hulk of a cash machine with its high, round keys
on their bent metal arms like a typewriter
clacking and ringing between the needle clicks

after the last sweet bite, I would go
and watch and talk
as the knots accumulated row by row
across the needles till she switched
at the end and knitted back again
and she told me what I’ve forgotten
and listened to me, which was huge
as I liked to spin my thoughts into
every inch of space, so I would talk
and she would make fabric of yarn

and I thought
she was a genius
and we would be friends
forever.