p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }
We shamble through
your air-conditioned shrine,
zombies in search
of our consumer souls,
here to shop for
beers, pay a bill or overdue fine.
And you, all smiles
and nice words for us ghouls,
are like a
priestesses in green, a blessing to us who drool.
That day the scooter
hit me, coming into your store
all caked in blood
and sore, you asked “are you okay?”
“I’ll live,
thanks,” I replied, and stared at the floor.
Oblivious that you
were the one who saved me that day
I woke up in the
hospital bandaged, aching, and with nothing to say.
Then, 11 days later,
among rows of peanuts and dried squid,
I saw you again,
cleaning up a bag of spilled salt,
And thought: that’s
her, so perfect, so…holy. Liquid.
Confused, your
hands, the crystals a white waterfall—
Shortly you were
gone, I limped, and pondered my fault.
Oh cashier of souls,
you can operate 9 machines at once,
accept money and
say Thank You for Coming (with zest),
master each task
like an earthly angel overcoming nuisance.
Often I wanted to
ask, “don’t you get tired, and need to rest?”
but what do I know
of a girl trying and being her best.
-ca. 2009