Bill Roberts, Poet

The All-Day Cinnamon Smear

Author: Bill Roberts

I place two cartons of hot coffee on the shelf

and pull up two tall stools in Scott’s Bakery

when something begins tugging at my jeans -

a little boy with blond curly hair and inquisitive

blue eyes that look up into mine as he asks if he can

sit on the stool intended for my wife who is

paying for a loaf of bread and getting two free slices

buttered to couple with our breakfast drinks.

I find another stool and pull it over,

pat the seat so the little boy, maybe four,

will sit there.  He has trouble climbing, so I help

him up.  He surveys his world from several feet

higher, then rearranges the newspapers that are

scattered on the shelf space in front of him -

Scott provides the local newspapers free, and the little

boy selects this morning’s Boulder Camera,

points to it and asks me to read.  I read the headline

and part of the story about another suicide bombing

in Iraq.  The little boy takes the paper when I proffer it,

seriously studies the print, then says with a frown,

Nothing good today, just as my wife arrives with thick

slabs of still-warm bread.  I offer mine to the kid

and he takes a confident bite, smearing cinnamon on his

cherubic face.  He reaches for a napkin and vigorously

wipes across his smile.  His Mom and Dad come up

behind us with their bakery purchases and an older

child in tow.  The little boy’s mother whispers something

in his ear.  He grins and motions with a finger

for me to come closer to hear his secret.  I lean down

and he kisses me moistly on the cheek, then jumps

from the stool and takes his Mom’s hand.  All wave to us

as they leave the bakery.  For the rest of the day

I wear a cinnamon smear proudly for all to see.

(Published online in the Fall 2008 issue of The Cat’s Meow)

Note:  Quite a day that was, quite a kid.  Kids can be so damned….charming at times.  This little boy, obviously, melted my heart.  Often go back to Scott’s looking for him but, alas, we haven’t crossed paths again.  The memory stays with me.

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