I felt warm
and sick
under the
sunny-wet sky that
late September afternoon
as I chimed
through the
gift-shop door.
walls: snow globes, flags,
things you tell yourself
you need
now,
but end up
in a Value Village
scratched and unused
in a year
floors: patterned carpets, red and
purple, mud scarred,
worn down
to gray
fibre
by the
till
counter: a dis-
play box
with little native carvings,
clearly labelled nine-ninety-nine
with tiny tags that explain
the “history” of the
small village and the
little Indians who inhabited
the bare land
bur were keen to trade tradition for
brandy, whisky and tobacco
customers: wandering
aislebound
looking at price tags
moving on
picking their teeth
whenever
they see
their reflection
me: perplexed, blood dried
asking myself
Is this all I am
A little synopsis
A paraphrase
on recycled paper?
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