The thrift store on Walcom Street

was where I ended up Monday morning. The shelves were groovy walnut powdered with sawdust and waves of honey.

The stuffed macaw in the window sill

smelled like Polynesian spices (funky), and when it squawked

my imagination flew 10 yards, only to spark dead.

The store was striped and polka-dotted; shored in with a sea of flea(find)s.

Dental floss, ivory tusks, the ineffectual gaze.

Shards of savage pottery, the trumpeting vacuum—

Tin cups and floral pennies,

I was flooded into submission, hands careening carefully;

My eyes bending to color and age.

The wrinkles of the cashier's eyes were too sympathizing.

I wandered through the restless aisles; a ghost coasting footprints across, pale and awful and painted out in leaves of silver. Veins reached out and pulled me in.

My search was never-ending.

I could not tunnel through. The pile was too delectable, the clutter so amazing;

To eat it away would be unthinkable, too beautiful a feat.

I continued to search.

I paced about this library of lives and waste, feces and decorum. The language of each piece was compelling but impossible, so I left it at that.

It was at exactly 3 'o clock that I found my soul in the clearance section.