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Jessica
by Mik Grantham
sitting out front on the benches one leg crossed over the other underneath the kumquat tree it is not yet 8 am i want one of those five dollar cookies she says jessica lives behind the shop on kentucky street with her grandmother i've known her for so long she never remembers my name i'm a nameless lady in an apron dragging metal cafe tables and chairs across the concrete outside jessica opens her eyes wide wide wide they might pop out of her skull i'm just enjoying the breeze she says i have two cookies saved from yesterday i will give her later after i finish opening up i am trying to sell the fresh baked goods because we need the money we need to make a certain amount of money every day every week month year that's what my accountant said last tuesday all day long jessica will sit outside she wants a dollar she wants a cigarette she wants a beer and some lemonade she wants to enjoy the breeze in peace she wants so many cups full of ice cold water over and over and over again i will fill her cups of ice cold water and people will come in all day buying her things and they will make sure i know it's for the lady outside on the bench underneath the kumquat tree not for them not for them it's for the lady outside just buy someone outside something without telling me just buy jessica a goddamn sandwich all i want is to feel a light breeze and the warmth of the sun on the skin of my cheeks to eat a sandwich on a bench underneath a kumquat treet in silence but not alone with you with you i smile at jessica as i sweep up old cigarette butts from last night or long ago and i say yeah, the breeze it's nice this morning, isn't it? but there is no breeze and it's still 85 degrees on November 6th
First published in Little Engines, June 2025.
 | A guest post by
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it’s all in the journey, well usually it is I think, and this little gem of a slender poem is such a journey, and I’m so grateful to be invited in. Happy/sad/happy poem. Thank you for it
Mik Grantham’s Jessica is a whispered portrait of unnoticed tenderness. What’s most human here is the quiet ache of being seen and unseen at once the woman in the apron, nameless yet constant, dragging tables across concrete while saving cookies for a girl who never remembers her name. The poem doesn’t ask for pity; it offers presence. Jessica, with her wide eyes and endless requests, becomes a kind of ritual an echo of need, a breeze that never comes. And beneath the repetition, there’s longing: not for recognition, but for shared silence, for a moment of sunlit grace beneath the kumquat tree. Not alone. With you.