Orange
fusion, purples, pinks and turquoise
Buttons
pop on white furs, skins soft and rough,
Textures
rub in palms feeling, observing
And
wanting, although fake, tempting to have.
Crowded,
eccentric individuals
Clawing
for unique pieces, desperate
To be
different, needy to ditch pop-
ular
cloths of Gucci, sick rich people.
Enter to
a land of shelves, racks stacked,
Overflowing,
pouring are tans and grays,
Blacks
holed through, skintight, see-through and gripping
Thighs
that walk, strut proud alongside Prada.
Hats,
messily scattered here, there, go on
Heads
highly held, heat corroding beneath
Thick,
sweat forming, the hunt to addicting
To end,
stop not until perfect patterns
Found and
placed atop bodies itching, more.
Squeals,
yelps, the ecstatic nature of
Souls not
worrying, not confined, out and
Open to
judgment, bare and naked to
Snickering
and scowling, yet bothered not,
They live
while others are trapped, dying.
Underneath
flowing ribbons, scarfs and tulle
Of red,
blue and green paisley splotched ja-
ckets,
leather detailed with studs jutted to-
wards
talking mouths, staring eyes behind shades
in Dolce
and Gabbana, they feel con-
tent,
comfortable in skin all their own.
With
silver covered fingers they wave bye,
Satisfied
with the finds today, thrifty.
___________________________________
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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