A cool noon sun haloed her hair, white as the tall
tulips she placed in her one old galvanized pail.
I remember this so clearly — as if it happened today.
How she arranged her skirt, rubbed her hands together.
How it sounded like sandpaper on leather. She placed
a few honey jars next to a basket full of parsley, took
a few steps back, checked it carefully, then sat on a crate
by her table. It's only then I noticed him — as she rested
her feet on his flank — a large brown mutt dosing under
that table. He didn't lift his head, or even open his eyes,
but slow and glad, his thick tail wagged up & down
on the dirt, & scuffed up dust into a gold swirl in the sun.
That's it — that's all I remember. But in my California
mega-market which play "Singin' in the Rain"
every time they mist their blue-lit produce, I know
that when I'll reach for parsley, it's them I'll remember
& have now, for over a half-century. I know that,
each time I'll step out of that building's whooshing
doors, I'll hold my parsley like a bouquet for those
two — that woman & her dog.
