The Smiley-Faced Sponge written by: Ayvan Saila @AyvanSaila Pancakes were her favorite breakfast food. I cut them into bite-sized squares and …The Smiley-Faced Sponge
This poem is, in part, a play with syllables. The rhythm is: 7, 7, 9 / 7, 7, 9 / 7, 7, 9 / 7, 7, 9 / 7. However, after posting to my website I realized it was more interesting to include the title and my name as a subtitle as part of the pattern. This makes sense, the creation of the poem begins with the title, with 7 syllables. This ends with 7 syllables, this feels right, like creation has already begun again. So, including the title the pattern is: 7, 7 / 7, 7, 9 / 7, 7, 9 / 7, 7, 9 / 7, 7, 9 / 7.
I did not begin the poem with any intention of playing with syllables. I almost hacked away at the finished product to create several Haiku poems instead, but, fortunately, sudden problems with internet connectivity discouraged me from pursuing that.
I prefer for the format of the words and language of the poem stay as I wrote them, so I uploaded a photo of the poem instead. For accessibility I’ve written the poem in the ‘alt text’ option for the photo.
“Don’t be mad at me, I just didn’t know. I haven’t been here since March.” the customer raised her voice through a decorative brown and orange striped cloth face-mask.
“Well if you don’t know, you don’t know,” I mumbled.
I did not believe she didn’t know. “Just another white lady who thinks the rules don’t apply to her.” I thought. “I’m ready if she pulls some Karen shit, though. We won’t tolerate that here.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that my co-workers were around to back me up if necessary.
As I scanned the groceries and tossed them back into the cart, I continued to complain to myself, “She thought I was going to take the groceries out of her bag. Ha! Why didn’t she just use a cart like everyone else? I should have told her to go get the cart for herself. She better not make a scene.” I sucked my teeth and probably rolled my eyes a little.
“What’s wrong now?” She asked, unexpectedly.
“The other cashiers are not here now, we aren’t busy now, that’s why they left. But they were here a few minutes ago.” I rambled on a bit, not telling her what I really felt.
I did not tell her that I was terrified that she would start throwing shit and calling me names and blaming me for all the problems with the world. I did not tell her that she was standing too damn close to me when she was belligerently trying to bag the groceries after I told her that she could not do that here.
“I still don’t understand exactly,” she interrupted my silent reel. “Where am I supposed to bag the groceries?”
“In the parking garage,” I replied incredulously. Didn’t she see that on her way in?
“Oh, how strange,” she replied. After a moment, she simply said, “Ok.”
I felt relieved, she was not going to make a scene. Soon she would leave and I could just forget about the whole incident.
“You accept SNAP here, right?” She asked.
“What?” I asked. I thought I heard correctly, but the masks muffle the words sometimes.
She showed me the food stamp card and asked again.
“Yes,” I replied, a bit stunned. I realized that my story about her was at least partially shattered. She wasn’t just trying to get special treatment. She did not know that the store policies had changed. I wondered whether this was the first time she’d been able to buy groceries since March.
I checked over my shoulder to make sure there were other cashiers available, but this time for a different reason, “Follow me,” I said sympathetically, “I’ll show you where you can bag your groceries.”