#158

Shouts of swimsuited mini-Vannas, pointing
to crayon-colored posterboard pricelists
which – if Truth in Advertising
applied to minor enterprise
would give the cost of soggy hotdogs
over-powdered lemonade, under-iced
and cookies home-baked only
on the picnic table racks of sun-ovens
but we buy them anyways
Much like the eye and beauty,
value is in the wallet of the holder.
Past the picket line of child commerce
beneath the watchful eye of the napping guy
armed with a cooler and a cashbox
lay the lengths of tin tables, teetering
unevenly on cracked concrete, covered
in discarded relics.
Like the shreds whipped from semi-tires
stripped flying down the interstate,
ribbons of evidence flicked
from the grip of a warp-speed life
lay waiting – a museum exhibit of decades
decaying on tables – anticipating
the hands that may reuse them
Most of which
I fly by, interested only in the reasons why
one would try to sell such things – but I
am a sucker for books.
Attic-baked, dust-glazed
deeply creased, and long-since steeped
in fingerprint oils of mysterious hands I’ll never meet
I graze their pages –
the thinner, softer, the more torn – the better
Irrelevant print I will never read
(Wisdom made public is fairly cheap)
but for handwritten dedications
and scribbled inky margin notes,
I will count my quarters out,
(feeling sneaky!)
Much like the offerings
of little chefs in the street
An under-estimate on the pricelist
of just what “priceless” means!

#98

Lay, quietly
and watch
A horizon of forestry
Melting, sliding
Waxy
into blurry puddles
that blear reflective edges
of the glass between your toes

Summer light that ebbs
with tides
finds golden glints
in sleepy eyes
And twilight’s dim leaves
Slick curved lines like
Residue of vigils
in candelight