Fred Meyer Supermarket, Wednesday evening
Checking his reflection in plate-glass window
Spit-wetted fingertips smoothing down long hair
Guitar case opens much like a coffin would,
Hard shell hinges to expose lush lining.
He wedges the instrument between elbow and ribs
As he reaches into his pocket for some change
Throwing it into the case, plus a couple bills,
For good measure. Just to give people the idea.
From inside the supermarket, sounds of hurry converge:
Carts rattle. Babies wail. From the street-side door, a dog barks.
But where the musician sits, facing the parking lot,
There are only soft melodies from his past life
And a hopeful silence waiting to be filled
By the sound of money hitting velvet.
January 30, 2002
Portland, Oregon
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Supermarket poems
Fred Meyer Supermarket, Wednesday evening
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