Gossip

I have this recollection:

Of when I was three years old, or four, or seven,

That I would lie upon my back on scratchy, red carpet

That was fraying in tight rows that ran parallel to the cabinetry,

In my mother's kitchen,

And I would pull long strands of yarn out of the floor
While mom talked on the phone,

On Tuesdays or Thursdays

At ten o'clock in the morning,
Putting away dishes
Handset cocked between her neck and shoulder,
Gossipping with Mary,

Or Shirley, or Sherlyn, or Carolyn

Discussing affairs of people I did not know,

Like Marsha, or Martha, or Donna,

Complaining how people could try harder

To understand what it was my mother 

And the tiny voice inside the telephone receiver

Were so adamant about, 

And how important it was to pay attention

To the way that others were feeling

About the situation.

I must have pulled miles of string out of that carpet

As I stretched my tiny toes up toward the ceiling,

The long, coiled cables of telephone cords

Wrapping around my feet.