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.