Who is the owner of that black wig floating around in my dream?
Is it the old woman,
who always walks in my store,
wearing spaghetti stained tee-shirts,
who skids worn out Chinatown slippers
down linoleum isles,
and fills her basket
with velveeta and cream?
Is it that young woman on the subway
who nurses a child in one arm,
and cradles laundry in the other,
who worries a thread on a wool knit sweater
unraveling at the seam?
Is it Gianni’s wife
who waters the petunias each morning
in her pink satin nightgown
who warms her body
on the edge of a sunbeam?