Someone named Dolores
called for you today.
She lives in the 1940s,
asks that you visit her
there.
Seems she has details
of history to share—wool
skirts, unfiltered
cigarettes,
a porter on a Pullman car
who saw too much, a neighbor
who never came back
from Tule Lake. She wants
to play records for you—
78 RPM, thick as UFOs.
She wants you to understand
what it was like for her,
what
she had, chose, and refused
to do. She understands how
busy you are. Still she’d
like to see you. Open
one of those boxes in
storage,
find a photo of or words from
Dolores. Walk through the
page. Dolores will be waiting,
holding a Chesterfield just so,
ready to tell you about women
and men back then. Don’t
worry. She can’t come back
but you can. You have a pass
that lets you go between now
and then. The price of the pass
is just to think about the
past.
That’s all. That’s really all
there is to it. Ask Dolores.
--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012
