Thriftstore
Mark Goodman You are too young to remember paper that courses through the guts of a register, slapping down the ink of costs. I know how much tape is left by how fat it sits in its socket. Whose pockets carry these transactions, among keys and lint? As the register eats the tape, somewhere in me wonders when a streak of red will stain down the middle, a settling of accounts. Elegiac Tragedy at Lake Billy Chinook The task so simple all we had to do was be reverent when we scattered her ashes (yes, I know it's illegal) (it's always illegal) we were new on this boat the four foot swells, one that tossed the bow up just as we uncorked her urn, and a breeze powder-coated our faces. We looked like a twelve hour shift in a coal mine. Mother had ruined our toast, as she was floating in the champagne. We had to hose the deck (couldn't return the boat like that); She was a good lady (and never laughed so hard). |
About the author:
Mark Goodman lives in the foothills of the Cascades in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two boys. His work has appeared in Ruah: Power of Poetry, Halcyon Literary Magazine, and Penwood Review. |