Poetry by Rosemary Royston

Rosemary Royston is an artist, poet and the author of Second Sight (2021, Kelsay Press) and Splitting the Soil (Finishing Line Press, 2014). She resides in the northeast Georgia mountains with her family. Her writing has been published in journals such as POEM, Split Rock Review, Southern Poetry Review, Poetry South, Appalachian Review, and *82 Review. Her blog, “Stitch & Stories,” features a collection of her written and handmade creations from poems to quilts.

Ode to the Ginger Man

 I heard the scrape as I backed out

of the tightly packed thrift store,

my dented Taurus scratching

the oxidized Hyundai on my left.

I felt my stomach drop, face grow hot.

I asked the long-haired woman

who was wearing a long denim skirt

and staring, Did I just hit your car?

She shook her head no, squeezed

the hands of her two small girls, shouted 

I’m afraid for my children! even though 

they were quite a distance away.

Embarrassed, I re-entered the store,

asked the attendant to radio

for the owner of the blue Hyundai.

Ginger man, you came bouncing out,

80s sweats, Skynyrd tee, bandanna 

holding back a mass of red curls.

 I’m so very sorry; I’ve scraped your car. 

You leaned down, ran your pale fingers 

over the white scar of missing paint.

Then you stood, looked me in the eyes 

and with a wide grin declared,

No harm here! I think it’ll drive just fine!

I smiled in return, and we shook hands

like new acquaintances do when they are happy

to meet, while the denim woman scowled

from her SUV, windows rolled tight.

Some days I play Barbies

 even though I’m well into my 50s.

It brings me peace to set a scene

in contrast to current events.

In Barbie-Land no one is trafficked,

there’s no food insecurity, war,

or debt to manage. Instead,

Midge and friends own an apartment

in a gutted 1950s RCA Victor console,

with LED lights, tiny cocktails, and a large

array of outfits to pair with their perma-grins.

The cat never gets fleas, the baby never cries,

and their drama is of the cozy genre:

Is Allan gay? Where did Spectra hide

the glitter? Is Midge sleeping with both

Barbie & Ken? Who stole Ponytail

Peg’s brush? The scenes are low-key,

distracting me from the nightly scum

of news. I drift off to sleep, knowing

there’s a tiny world I control, frozen

inside a fake mahogany cabinet

where the doors open to ongoing joy.