When we were young and lacked the coin
to buy enduring toys, the Woolworth store
defined the reach of acquisition,
filling up the breach of larger dreams
with flavored ice and scooter pies.
We consumed them while on the run
through the hot streets of Washington,
learning thus the rate of sweetness
and how rapidly it melts away.
At the flea market in Arlington
we saunter through the parking garage
and dispense the largess piled on age.
She soothes the ache of toys denied
with a pewter vase and a string
of Lapis from Afghanistan.
I use the hour to forage for
battered trains from before the war
when I could only watch the tin toys run
through the teasing window of the store.
Copyright © Bill Keen | Year Posted 2019
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