An absurdly large display case, dozens
of yellowing greeting cards, the case a bargain perhaps
from some defunct drug store. Hundreds of pink gloves,
$1.00 a pair, identical in their size and sure-to-fade dye.
Auto visor tissue holders. Super cap guns.
Multicolored miniature ping-pong paddles and balls,
party favors for a child's birthday. All crowded on a nicked shelf.

There was a time, back when I was nineteen or so,
when a cheap corner store held a special allure,
when every odd item captured my attention.
I would have treasured the obscure brand names,
Cinderella hair conditioner and Lander shampoo;
the myriad baby junk; shoes for $1.89, stiff, frilly dresses for
three-year-olds, hundreds of white hair ribbons and scores
of richly colored scrungies, alphabet tennis shoes with ABCs
around rubbery bases. I would have relished every item,
laughed at its absurdity or delighted in its otherness,
bought some particular prize to display on a windowsill at home.
I would have made regular trips to my find, my store, my kitsch.

But today this world just looks sad and broke,
the man at the quiet register listening to talk radio blasting
through the store and making no attempt to check
for shoplifters or to ask me why I might have come.