The hot wings and fries had just hit the table
when I saw him.
He walked in with his lady friend
and a little girl that looked a lot
like him.

I thought about leaping from my seat
and sinking my fist, wrist deep
in his mush.
It seemed like a fine idea.
I remember him kicking me
in the ribs and in the side
of the head.
I remember feeling my body slip between
the toilet and the bright blue wall
of the stall.
I remember knowing I was stuck.
I could tell he remembered too.
I called him by name just so I could look him
in the eye.
I wanted him to know that I knew.
He knew.
I did too.
We shook hands.
I saw regret in his eyes
and was glad of it.
In the end, the regret was
mine too.
I need to turn old anger
loose.

The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.  
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.

-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014

The desire to make the rest of these words rhyme
Is immense!
Alas, I cannot do it.
All I can do is read Frost’s
iambic pentameter and wonder
just what has become of Lola C. Edwards?
It’s her tome that I’ve purchased for two bits
at this decrepit, yet beloved thrift shop.

The book became hers, according to her inscription,
in the year 1970.
Now, it belongs to me in 2014.
I bought it because it’s The Complete Poems of Robert Frost;
the same that resides in my father’s library
and was greedily scanned by my hungry eyes and inspired mind.
But, what happened to Lola, some years ago?
Was it the cancer? Did it consume her bones?
Was she surrounded by loved ones?
Was she all alone?
What else but death could force her to relinquish such a text?
Surely, she couldn’t have done so willingly.
Her estate has been sold.
Her knick-knacks dusted and boxed for their final voyage to The DAV.
Turned over to uncaring brutes that couldn’t care less about
her beloved crystal cake plate, now shattered, or the book
that I hold in my hand today.
Lola C Edwards shares her life with me.
Every time I open this compendium,
I shall celebrate her, this beloved stranger!
Because, we are alike, she and I
in that we have chosen the road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference.
*
-J. Claywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014