Walking the aisles of thrift stores
a chance to relive childhood through
diecast toys, outdated pixilated video games,
8-track players and assorted vinyl albums,
I have become the old man who hums to
himself, hands behind back, strolling along
through Goodwill or filing in rank
at the Salvation Army.
I now smirk at the mischief of teens who
assemble the stocking hangers in the Christmas aisle
to read SATAN and find myself swapping order
to keep in the spirit of things. I look
at all the golf clubs, but consistently forget the exact club
I’m searching for. Forty-five degrees? Thirty degrees? It’s what
my father calls a lob wedge. Books are always on the radar.
My house if furnished from these places. Spent twelve fifty on
my couch, twenty-five on a set of Danish chairs. Three hundred
sixty on a teak buffet. Wooden birds, old cameras,
wind-up toys, collections of elephants and owls—reminders
of my grandparents—consume all available space on bookcases
and shelves. There is definable pleasure in the hunt.
On February 28th, I proposed at St. Vinny’s in Plymouth,
on my knee inspecting a beer stein. That’s on my shelf too.
8/20/10
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