populating Trader Joe’s,
reminded of the beauty of
the slightly crooked nose,

the extra chins under dark-
pupil’d eyes, the crinkles of
countenance that show

our infinite varieties of human,
the spice of life in everyone’s DNA
right there on Aisle 4 where

I reach for the 21 Seasoning Salute,
which will go home to snuggle
next to other spices in the cabinet

right next to the fridge,
where the faces of beloveds
cling, magnetized, as well as

the inside of the medicine cabinet
and the filing cabinets in my office—
among them the sweet faces

of two little girls in red,
the ones we used to be so long ago
I cannot remember us then,

except when I look at photos
like this one—our baby-teeth grins,
our white-blonde hair,

a pair of young souls with
nothing but promise, with
everything ahead of them.

•••

for Donna Gail, just because