Miss Thing was not just anyone.
She was the one whose name got lost
in mists gracing the moorish mire
that was my grandmother's mind.
But let her do just one thing nice--
bake a cake, bring the mail, sweep the stoop,
or set the shiny green tub on the curb
for men to pick out paper and glass
and cans from yesterday's croquets--
and then Miss Thing she was no more.
The steel trap would open wide,
freeing names and faces,
a police line-up of neighbors
suspected of doing nice deeds.
"Thank you, Gladys. Stay for some coffee."
© 2003 Jason C. Jones