Candy shop. San Luis Obispo.
On asphalt. In creosote. Past station wagon exhaust.
My eccentric Summer Quinctius curling long hair.
A tiny nose. Sun-bleached jeans.
Brown work-boots awkwardly tied.
I had the best Mexican lollypop ever made.
From an old man. Dark skin. A confectionista.
He had a life-eaten face spreading one thousand miles of smile.
“On the road?” he asked, “Here, Some extra rock-candy,
for your little girl. She’s so pretty, it’s on the house.”
My father ushering me out roughly by the shoulder.
The hispanic man’s confusion still holding the bag of candy.
Outside, my mother’s frown and confusion,
and my father’s aggravated, livid gestures.
The look at me.
The look at me.
“We’re getting his fucking hair cut.”