Dollar Store

The in-store music is country-slow, the vibes twangy. I pick through the tack and tinsel, dig for rough diamonds. Squeezing past other consumers, sharp showers of oven scourers. A toilet brush, a candy bar, a plastic encrusted necklace – pink or blue, all are equals here. A potato masher calls to me; yet another set of screwdrivers hijacks my basket, Treasures heap. The ladies at the checkout approve; they’ve personally tested all the mashers. We chit the chat, while a stringy angel rises up to arrange high helium spheres. I hear her call, her a voice throaty with the smoke of love, a Mid-West idiom that passeth all understanding.