I’m always in the wrong spot

in line, last in a row of women

pulled to the edge

of the curb to fetch children.

Cars idle, mothers gather

at rolled down windows, poking

heads into mint-conditioned air, whining

about lists of to-do’s and brown

ladies who clean, and husbands

strutting around with the starch

of profit, the stench of industry.

Sunlight storms my car, singeing,

reflecting off those other

paint jobs that make black go light

or maybe it’s the silver

smirk of their bumpers.

A bell sounds the release

of leotards and pink tights

and the one with knee circles of dirt

raps her knuckles at my window.