THE GIRLS AT THE WATER WHEEL
On the other side of the wire, my reflection
leans into a black-clawed cane, gathering dust
in a Garberville restaurant before I limped in.
Ramped for wheel chairs, no pretending
here in the redwoods along 101, where tips
must get you through months of rain – kind
gesture from two logger’s daughters, hard years
past heifer prime. The ninety-pound cashier
in her eighties says that she knew the old
gentlemen who won’t be back to retrieve it.
Too much magic to believe, I’m not sure which
is which and just who is a reflection of whom.