By Cathy Barber
I am the only customer in the old post office,
struggling a bit to hear the clerk,
and pressed close to the glassed window.
There is a tray below for sliding payment
and a milk box-size compartment for packages
to my right—I open and close
then she opens and closes.
Sepia murals of workers coat the walls—
smelters, farmers, such drudgery.
Suddenly, the door at the far side pops
and a ray of a woman glides in and takes up song,
a half hum, alto, chocolatey. Our private La Scala.
Compliments hopscotch from my mouth
across the space, over the wooden counter
and its pens. We converse—she’s practicing
for karaoke night. I could almost applaud,
could fill out a customs form—
I’ve got so much to declare.
Cathy Barber’s poetry has been published on four continents and has been anthologized many times, including in the anthologies Rewilding: Poems for the Environment and Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California. Her work has been nominated for a Best of the Net. Her abecedarian chapbook is Aardvarks, Bloodhounds, Catfish, Dingoes (Dancing Girl Press, 2018) and her first full length book is Once: A Golden Shovel Collection (Kelsay Books, 2023). She taught for many years with California Poets in the Schools. She is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA program, and makes her home in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, where she serves on the board of Literary Cleveland.
