Christmas Shopping, 1981

To push through its heavy doors and

step upon its perfect polished palace

of square stone angles and fake ferns

was to leave my skin outside on a hook

to flop in the December breeze and

be someone else briefly, holding down

a black bench and staring into the earth

toned, tiny-tiled fountain, marveling at

how the pennies, nickels and even the

occasional revered quarter always fell

on the white tiles as if the slots

were always there

 

What sort of place was this, where one

could just flick bread and baseball cards

unborn into a stranger’s puddle, wealthier

than any decent person dared to be

 

Glancing at my raw wrists peeking from

twice gnawed cuffs, I plucked the shiny nickel

I swiped from my mother’s purse in case I

should chance upon a gumball machine,

spied my slot and flicked it through the

eye of a ripple already passing, a moment’s

credit to fit in.

Reviews

[Brittany W]

Beautiful, i've read one other poem by you and i love the imagery and how well you describe things, fabulous work.

[.n.]

This is vivid- a nice short story in poem form. I particulary like the line "to leave my skin outside on a hook to flop in the December breeze". Nicely done.