The Road Beneath Our Feet

Raywell's

There she stands, just outside the dripping, striped awning,
beneath the air-raid shelter sign, 
erect posture, frizzed gray hair, arms loaded with soggy parcels,
wearing a worried expression.

And the rain keeps falling.

At her elbow, three boys gobbling hot dogs on “fresh baked” buns, 
dazzled by the throbbing spectacle around them.
In sagging, plaid pants and damp sneakers, they’re loving the adventure 
with Grandma. “Maybe someday I’ll wear a paper hat and apron, Grandma, 
and sell hot dogs at Raywell’s.”
Passers-by hurry on, oblivious of the old woman and her three charges.

And the rain keeps falling.

Little boys grow up to sport saddle shoes and corduroy jackets
or creased pants with gold watches on their wrists. 
They carry umbrellas, or not, and wear worried expressions.
Grannies become fond memories of long-ago adventures,
rinsed of the cares that beset the earnest old woman in wet shoes 
shepherding her cherished charges through the city on a rainy day.

— Janice F. Booth