GLORIA ROVDER HEALY
THE TEN DOLLAR BILL
Girls, from towns named Havre de Grace,
were chauffered in cadillacs.
Fathers, in vested suits, officed on Capitol Hill.
Mothers, brimming from leghorn hats,
arrived in magnolia chiffon.
I was from a small Jersey town where
grandmother walked to Eisner’s factory
to sew linings in army overcoats.
Tuesdays, mom went to firehouse rummage sales
seeking bargains she’d make into Cassini look-a-likes.
Dad, in khaki pants, flannel shirts, black work shoes,
hauled Duncan Phyfe furniture from one southern
mansion to another, then another.
Detouring on his way to Charleston,
he parked his mustard yellow van with
pistachioed palm trees under my dorm window.
I cringed when the loudspeaker bellowed,
Your father’s here, Miss . . .
The class queen, passing me on the down staircase,
yelled, Whose gaudy truck is taking up half of
O street?
My reply: How would I know?
Dad’s eyes flowed when he saw my Georgetown cap.
Pidge, you look like a pro. Without a hello, I asked,
Why didn’t you leave the van at the truck stop?
Don’t worry, he replied, it’ll disappear before your
friends see it.
Pressing a ten dollar bill in my fist he kissed me goodbye.
I ran to my room shared with a Senator’s daughter.
My father, his gaudy truck headed south on US 1.
