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edward-vanhoosePoems
The **** crowed once… He enters my store nervously, cautiously examining the merchandise on the shelves. At least two decades stretch between style and his clothes— His wife follows demurely, her feed sack dress presents hand stitching, beautifully done, to even my unqualified eye. And then he speaks: Hi followed by presentation of an item clearly worthless to my trained eye. We’d like to talk to someone about selling this please? Procedure grants no empathy, just rejection. Business is for profit, after all. And softly, sadly as they leave, he articulates their purpose: We just needed something for groceries. My chest tightens. I did not grant them reprieve. The **** crowed twice… The lady approaches: black skin, blue jeans dingy shirt and hair in disarray. I look away. Insistently she speaks, Sir, can I help you load those bags? What's the angle? A few dollars is all I ask. I’m-sorry-the-task- is-done, (though clearly I’ve just begun) My children wait in the car; I can hear them playing, when next she speaks: My kids are hungry. My heart skips at the quivering lips before me. She walks away unfulfilled. I await the third sounding.
0
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
Denial
The **** crowed once… He enters my store nervously, cautiously examining the merchandise on the shelves. At least two decades stretch between style and his clothes— His wife follows demurely, her feed sack dress presents hand stitching, beautifully done, to even my unqualified eye. And then he speaks: Hi followed by presentation of an item clearly worthless to my trained eye. We’d like to talk to someone about selling this please? Procedure grants no empathy, just rejection. Business is for profit, after all. And softly, sadly as they leave, he articulates their purpose: We just needed something for groceries. My chest tightens. I did not grant them reprieve. The **** crowed twice… The lady approaches: black skin, blue jeans dingy shirt and hair in disarray. I look away. Insistently she speaks, Sir, can I help you load those bags? What's the angle? A few dollars is all I ask. I’m-sorry-the-task- is-done, (though clearly I’ve just begun) My children wait in the car; I can hear them playing, when next she speaks: My kids are hungry. My heart skips at the quivering lips before me. She walks away unfulfilled. I await the third sounding.
Written by
edward-vanhoose
Dutch
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
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