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ON THE BUS WITH THELMA 1944
by Patricia Hickerson we're riding the crowded bus from Teaneck to Hackensack two Jersey girls Thelma and I going to the Fox Theatre for a movie over the bridge and across the river the bus is crowded, lurching back and forth then forward again every seat taken so we're standing face to face in the aisle not even a pole to hang onto jostling against each other we're wearing bristling white cotton piqué flared skirts, fitted jackets white buck high heels we look swell lips redolent of Revlon purple lipstick lips grease-coated with Revlon's best you could be blind and off balance and still know you were in the presence of Revlon had a distinctive aroma swell lipstick expensive for us teenagers we gave it to each other for Xmas the latest shade Plum Purple we sealed our envelopes with a kiss printed SWAK under our lip imprint sent letters off to GIs overseas wartime, see and Thelma and I are standing there jostling each other talking, laughing our faces bright with purple lipstick the bus lurches my purple Revloned lips land on Thelma's white jacket lapel there it is in perpetuity my greasy purple lip stain on Thelma's white jacket lapel woe is me! wait till she sees it! Gosh…sorry, Thelma! |
MARINGY OPERA HOUSE, NEW ORLEANS by Myles Boisen |
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BABS OF NEW ORLEANS 1965
by Patricia Hickerson it's Saturday evening again along the steaming crescent where ya goin’, sugar? out, out, out front door slams Babs stands in the parking lot Eddie Price's pool hall on Magazine Street— smokin' hot 9th grade bitch queen long legs seven league boots thigh skirt tight, shining hair falls back between the angel wings greets a striving boy-child pool cue twists his fingers, his smirking mask bobs at her breast he offers up a Marlborough butt from his baby lips to her Revlon lips Babs strides down Prytania Street high school boys drive by chanting obscene she laughs, offers them the finger escapes into Taffy's house with Jay and Rachel and Rick friends from Fortier smoke and drink listen to the Beatles, dance from room to room sing hello to Sunday morning Babs hasn't given herself up yet; she's picky she wants McCartney— headfirst out thru Taffy's window mom's sugar going home from the long night she dreams along rat-alleys, past shotgun squalor shell-strewn levees in shadow and rising sun the lowering city river-shaped |
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