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.
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