what about black wigs

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?

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