One day, driving on Western Avenue
To cheer my reconstructed wife,
A curbside, spastic gumby caught my eye.
One of those puffed-air waving figures
That insist: this store! this store!
We have what you’re looking for!
My cash, of course,
Is what that merchant’s
Looking for. Doubtless, he, too, needs
Warmth and sustenance.
And besides, the rent is due.
But what I most desire
Is not stocked in stores.
While stumbling toward
My own dark precipice,
I mock myself
And foolish folks
For all the stuff we felt
We could not live without.
A bed, a chair and table,
A pencil, some paper,
Some clay to shape.
Groceries, of course,
A few books—
A heated room against the wind.
Stuff enough!
Beyond this modest greed.
Again, I have to say:
What I most desire
Is not stocked in stores.
(1/25/08)