Poem

Harbor Hills Ward: Newport Beach

You emerge from your car, laughing.

“I forgot to tie my dress,” you say,

turning your back to me, and I do it for you.

And I think I understand how Cinderella felt

once, that early afternoon,

when the ball was still imaginary:

Standing there,

in her wrinkled black polyester,

grasping Drusilla’s sash,

her callused fingertips

not fathoming the silk,

it’s that fine, bluer than

Gatsby’s shirts, softer,

wealth slipping through her fingers,

fluttering, catching on a hangnail--

Cinderella hopes she doesn’t smell of onions

as she ties a lopsided bow

on her sister.

I write poems for fun sometimes, and it's fun to have a place to share them. But I'm going to start writing what I'm trying to convey too, just in case anyone feels like they want to give some feedback, which I always appreciate.

I live in a ward in which the economical variance among members is huge. Generally it doesn't bother me, but one morning I felt the difference a little stronger than usual. I was on my way in to church and a beautiful, youthful-looking, skinny, perfectly-coiffed, perfumed sister stopped me in front of the church doors and asked me to tie the back of her dress. The touch of the material was a shock--my hands hadn't felt anything so soft and obviously expensive in a looong time. So this poem is trying to convey that shock, as well as a bit of wonder that two "sisters" could come from such unequal walks of life.

(art by Roger d'Erlander from here)