The young girl walks into a store, carrying
A small bag across the side of her body,
Glancing at all the giant racks of clothes, with
Her eyes wide open, like a small monkey.
Her arms begin to fill with hangers.
Making her way to the dressing rooms,
Carrying a million dresses in hand,
The store worker lends her a hand, grabbing
The pile from her arms, asking her how many
She has, she replies I don’t know.
The young lady laughs and says go in here,
Giving her a room and six hangers to try.
Putting a dress over her head, she pokes
Her arms through the holes, turning and smiling,
Looking into the mirror, she says yes.
A million more dresses get pulled over
Her head, until she can’t try anymore.
Tired from a long day of shopping,
She pushes on to find a few more.
Leaving the store with seven bags in hand.
She stops at the one right next door,
Pulling her shoe off to try some wedges.
She’s in heaven when she sees the whole
Entire wall filled up with heels and flats.
She runs around grabbing as many pairs
As she can, trying them all on at one time.
She runs to a mirror, popping her foot.
Smiling and laughing at how good they all look.
She can’t decide which ones she wants, so
She buys them all, shopping is so much fun.
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Poem of the Day: Sales
by W. S. Di Piero
Miguel might, if he speaks English, call the colors
of ukuleles stretching their necks from yards
of canvas duffel yoked across his shoulders,
auroral azul, cherry pop, or mojito green,
under this Pac Heights sky where the awful rich
snap their heels past shop windows, past goatskin bags
and spiked heels that bring them closer to heaven,
fibristic sheets of celadon paper from Zhejiang,
FIAT cremini, and Cinco de Mayo gelato.
Smiling past them, he passes with his happy load,
a display model whole and nude in his hand,
on sale to no one, uplifted like a Stratocaster
sacramental from mahogany forests in Paraguay.
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