Stone Soup Croutons, 4-18-16, Thrift

Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked up from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title either then or later. It's likely some of the poets I thank at the end won't even be able to figure out which lines were inspired by their work. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, the poem doesn't go up because it's good; it goes up because it's Tuesday morning. Today, though, life got in the way and it's up in the afternoon instead.

 Gale Batchelder and Judson Evans had an amazing feature yesterday. It came with such a rich open mic, I was able to incorporate not only the open mic but also one or two of the poets' introductions (thanks Gale and Daniel Moore). That doesn't mean the poem makes much sense, though I was able to incorporate the theme of seasons which at least three different poets used. I'll let you be the judge.


Thrift


Her fall moments
come in November.
Mine come in July.
You're unable to explain
that's just your personality.

The summer snake lady
laughs at you like Eve
pointing at Adam's fig leave,
amused at your inability
to find a single magic hat
in a thrift shop,
for failure to haggle
for a purple overcoat
when the clerk denies the color.

You lack the lips and cheek
bones to carry on
this circus emcee wear,
a uniform for gigolos
bound for any kept woman
in a five mile radius.

You could see her as the ideal
you wanted all along, someone
to play 52 pick up with
over and over, your feet
hanging in a lake
gathering sediment
between your toes.

But then she'll say
she is not your home,
Mr. Fall pretending
to be Sir Spring Fling.

She'll act as your eye,
you unable to see yourself
even with a mirror's aid.
She'll put the fire out in your eye
before it's starts something
only one of you is willing to finish.

Is this the season for you
to be in love?
Your mood's a fall mockingbird
crashing into a bell jar,
a failed attempt to reach the sun.

Your hand leaves a bruise-red print
like primitive graffiti,
revealing yourself as charlatan,
cave dweller failing to feign
disco sophistication,
glass ball among stalactites,
raiding the thrift store
for a technicolor leisure loincloth.

Your autumn as destined
to come falling back down
as the decorations.
 No particular continuity,
your house guests hunting
for a fishing spear
and a cigarette,
your personal chill
creeping up their back
as they get away
via the river
devoid of rendezvous,
your body the only place
where you can keep old things.

People actually taking the number one spot! Now that's an open mic list!

Special Thanks to Karen Klein, Valerie Loveland, Lee Varon, Julia McElroy, Erik Nelson, Dexter Garcia, Andrew, Surat Lozowick, Martha Boss, Emily Paine, Gale Batchelder, Judson Evans, Daniel Moore, Heather Nelson and James Van Looy.