Sofie Vastano

OFF RAMP

Laid off. Evicted. Need cash.
They lean under a tree in a small triangle of grass next to
Chevron. He is massaging her shoulders
sun-reddened faces tilted toward
the ground. She leans forward - he uses his elbow
to get at deep knots under her shoulder blade. An arc
of pain.

Single mom. No job.
She leans over her brindle
pit bull as the commuters drive away. A stanza
of protection. Yellowed hair covered
by a navy knit cap, her nose peeling – wearing layers
of coats and gloves and scarves.

I'm dreaming of a chicken sandwich.
Sitting on an army surplus backpack on the traffic island
in the middle of William Cannon one-half block
from McDonalds, red baseball cap. Is there another sign
for morning, Visualizing Egg McMuffins?

Iraq Vet, God bless America. God bless you.
West of town, after the rains. His right
pant leg empty below the knee, his hands gritty,
wet, and grey from the mud on the wheels
of his chair, God bless you. He smiles.

Anything helps. Even a smile.
I want to wave but my lips pinch
in a sorry, but
I don't want to get your hopes
up. Spare us eyes meeting
through my car window, my air
conditioned capsule.

Need money
Cautious smile. Half-hearted
wave. Shorthand for loss.

Sofie Vastano is a poet and a middle school teacher. She currently lives in Austin, TX with her husband and son. She has had poems published in Tidepools, Inkspeak, and Hip Mama magazine. More of her work can be read at her blog on A Place for Poems to Breathe.