Patricia Whiting Fine Arts

We talked about
forgotten birthdays,
my friend and I.
His daughter’s birthday
somehow overlooked.

I remembered the September
when I was eleven
and forgot my mother’s
birthday.
Remembered handing her
the ten-dollar bill
and her refusing.
Remembered the hurt
in her eyes as she said,
“Buy me a present with it.”

I told my friend
how I walked downtown
in quest of
the perfect present
and found the gleaming,
chrome bread tray.

(“It won’t tarnish,”
the saleswoman said.)
And how I plucked it up
as if it were
the Holy Grail.

And every night at dinner
the chrome bread tray
was placed on the table
for all to admire.

Then my friend told me
about the time
he gave his mother
a shiny
red dump truck
for her birthday.

How he watched her
unwrap it. How she beamed
with apparent pleasure
and said:
“I’ll use it to hold
mashed potatoes.
We’ll push it
along the table,
stopping to dump
mashed potatoes
on each plate.”

And the gift giver
was dismayed
because he was hoping
to play with the
shiny
red
dump truck
in his sandbox.