by Lori D’Angelo
The glass slipper doesn’t fit.
The red sweater doesn’t match
the green pants and the visions of sugarplums
that danced in my head aren’t real.
On paper is the only place that matters
and my resume is a just trail of breadcrumbs
that lead to an empty bank account.
Johnny Cash was not the first to ask:
What have I become, my empire of dirt?
I wish I had an empire. I wish I had a million dollars,
George Bailey, it’s really not such a wonderful life
after all. The broken banister might drive me
to the river too or to the big house.
There are days when I want to slam into cars
like I’m at Kennywood again, like it’s just a ride.
I wish I could pay my rent with monopoly money.
I wish I could go outside and have somebody say:
OhmyGod, you’re--, but when I pass by, no one stops.
No one knows the dreams I’ve built. In the light
of incandescent bulbs, they just fade into a stream
of vapor. How many mornings have you been caught
in a mist, felt you were in a fairy world and then
when you turned a corner, the mist was gone--there was
was only a Wal-Mart and a debit account with a $5 balance.
Even gas I have to ration, feel like I wear the same damn
thing ever other day. Chicken Little, the sky is falling
just beyond the reach of my grasp. Still, I close my eyes
reach for rainbows, build a palace out of gingerbread.
Lori D’Angelo is an MFA student at West Virginia University. Her work has appeared in Pequin, Red Ink Journal, Hamilton Stone Review and Stirring. She lives in West Virginia and Ohio with her husband and two dogs.
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