Mannequin

The mannequin in the window is reaching

dramatically skyward, where maybe a better life

or better pantsuit is out there somewhere

hanging in someone else’s closet. It reminds

him of the way his mother used to lift him up

as high as she could reach, and then he would run

a feather duster through the dead spiders until

she tired and took him outside for some fresh air

while she smoked a Kool menthol and told him

what all the neighbors were worth. And when she

gave him a sip of her RC Cola it was clear that nothing

beyond that porch was worth knowing about. Past

the store with the mannequin is a dog wash

and a juice bar and the place that does his shirts

with light starch and a hint of mint at the collar.

(from The Timberline Review, 2015)