No Haloes Here
by Claire Scott
No haloes here
no straight shot to heaven
not since I stole peppermint gum
not since I ate the Easter eggs
I was supposed to sell to the neighbors
to raise money for Saint John’s
where I pasted Jesus pictures on Sundays
where I stole Debra’s favorite fountain pen
But I only ate the small ones, I swear
the ones that cost two cents
I think I’m dating myself here
how long has it been since
a chocolate egg cost two cents
maybe I should revise it to fifty cents
so no one will know I am closing in on eighty
and forget where I left my slippers
And who Silas is in this tedious novel
I started over again last night
I think the father of Cynthia
or perhaps her wayward husband
I toss the book aside
this business of turning eighty
barely wobbling around the block
barely swinging on the porch swing
But who cares, I can swing with my stash
of bottles hidden in the basement
behind the bicycles covered in cobwebs
the Chutes and Ladders, the soccer cleats
so my children don’t lecture me
on neurons blinkered by bourbon
and here I am still chewing packs
of peppermint gum spotted at Safeway
Actually pretty happy
on my frayed couch, FaceTiming
with five grandkids, figuring out how
to make supper with two bruised bananas
and an expired can of corned beef
fingering the two small peppermint patties
that I found in my old lady purse
no haloes in sight
no straight shot to heaven
not since I stole peppermint gum
not since I ate the Easter eggs
I was supposed to sell to the neighbors
to raise money for Saint John’s
where I pasted Jesus pictures on Sundays
where I stole Debra’s favorite fountain pen
But I only ate the small ones, I swear
the ones that cost two cents
I think I’m dating myself here
how long has it been since
a chocolate egg cost two cents
maybe I should revise it to fifty cents
so no one will know I am closing in on eighty
and forget where I left my slippers
And who Silas is in this tedious novel
I started over again last night
I think the father of Cynthia
or perhaps her wayward husband
I toss the book aside
this business of turning eighty
barely wobbling around the block
barely swinging on the porch swing
But who cares, I can swing with my stash
of bottles hidden in the basement
behind the bicycles covered in cobwebs
the Chutes and Ladders, the soccer cleats
so my children don’t lecture me
on neurons blinkered by bourbon
and here I am still chewing packs
of peppermint gum spotted at Safeway
Actually pretty happy
on my frayed couch, FaceTiming
with five grandkids, figuring out how
to make supper with two bruised bananas
and an expired can of corned beef
fingering the two small peppermint patties
that I found in my old lady purse
no haloes in sight
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam, and Healing Muse, among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t.