Woman at the Kroger

following Operation Allied Force

I see her in the produce aisle while I am examining onions. 

She pauses at the potatoes, her daughter in tow. 

And what a merry child she is, skipping across the polished floor, 

attracted to the spotlights reflecting off the neat rows of fruit and vegetables. 

Her mother is attractive, cropped black hair, wearing a blue windbreaker

with a tent insignia.  Perhaps no less than ten years younger than me,

but looking fatigued.  She glances up briefly, shadows outlining her cheeks. 

Intuitively, I seem to know her whole history: refugee from the Balkans,

newly flown in from the camps along with the many dozens 

sponsored by our local churches.  Our eyes meet briefly. 

She pulls her hands out of the potato bin and turns them over

to show no ring.  Her daughter, same age as my own,

has already turned the corner to the next aisle. 

The woman speaks her name sharply: Ola!─ then a string of Slavic words

I cannot follow.  I sense that she in turn could not have understood

the compliment I have been poised to pay her on the child,

so regrettably, say nothing.  A second later, the girl peeks her head around

to assure her mother that she is still there, and smiles. 

Immediately, her mother pushes the cart ahead without putting anything in it,

as if fearing an unsafe zone at the end of the aisle,

there past the discount bins, and unable to bear the thought of further loss.           

American Dream

I only have to go back to my great-grandparent’s generation

to find a pioneering Alger hero or two.  Immigrants, all of ‘em:

the orphan from Australia who grew up to be a state senator,

the French-Canadian bar owner, the Italian banana traders

who settled in decent Chicago neighborhoods and became

prosperous shopkeepers, policemen, salesmen, and soldiers. 

My grandparents and parents shared the same suburban dream:

the house with the white picket fence, the six to eight kids,

the station wagons that produced carbon signatures the size  

of John Hancock’s.  Then, one job per household was enough,

and there were neighborhood potlucks and strange creatures

known as housewives.  These were the original life coaches.

My generation plugged guitars into those garages, dreamed

of selling a screenplay or starting up a band.  We watched a lot

of tv, worked part time jobs, went to college and spent junior

years abroad.  We were restless, got hired and fired, married

and divorced, learned to manage family and career.  But we

never discarded that screenplay, if you’d care to take a look.

They say the new American Dream is winning the lottery,

or gaining instant fame on reality tv, whether one has talent

or not.  But that is an old dream, really: prospector’s gold,

striking it rich.  It may be that dreams just need to cycle out, 

and that all those who don’t get their fifteen minutes of fame

this go-around will have to start over again at the bottom.             

Pathways

I was telling my brother how I used to pick up an old trail

from our house.  It led through the suburbs, lawn to lawn,

had to be divined in places.  But the trees gradually

multiplied until they revealed a woodland path that led

all the way down to the river.

From the banks, it was a short wade out to an island

hidden in pines. How many times had I visited there! 

On the north side, no more sign of life than an occasional

outbuilding, but to the west, a road leading through ruins of

a once-thriving resort community.

Hearing the details, my brother frowned.  Where was this?

Then I was telling my father how before I had a car

and worked at the credit union downtown,

I would sometimes take the old ferry—no larger than a skiff.

I would walk down the hillside to the Mississippi,

take off my shoes and socks, and join the line

of yawning commuters.

There were pathways here too, skirting the river on both sides.

And if the day were bright enough,

I often preferred to jog back home

through the archways of trees, which muffled

the traffic sounds from the highway.

Was this in Minneapolis or St. Paul? my father asked, confused.

The better part of my life is spent in dreams.

Only by chance awakenings do I learn where I have been.

M.V. Montgomery is a professor of English at Life University in Marietta, Georgia.  He currently has poetry appearing in Words-Myth and is working on his first collection, Strange Conveyances.