The Sandwich Girl
Theyíve lowered the shelves of the counter
so she can get to the tuna salad
and sliced turkey sitting down
because of her surgery while her leg heals
and she canít go to school,
enrolled instead on the Internet
in homeschool online and learning
alone without ever meeting her teachers.
Next year she will take American lit
and see her doctor and read Walt Whitman
and look at the computer screen
that asks her what she knows
about how much more time her leg needs
while some customers want mayo
on their corned beef sandwich or deluxe
with horseradish on rye or whole wheat,
sour dough, optional tomato and red onion
until itís too thick for that first bite
and she has to study algebra for tomorrow.
Askew on the berm,
the doe lies with legs scattered
like those of a 1952 t.v. table
after some child clipped its corner
running through the living room
during Amateur Hour.
All these years later
t.v. tables are obsolete
while America counts millions
more of us and thousands more deer.
We collide, and this one dances
crookedly on the sky.