An outing to scout a town,
pockets full of bored hands,
loosened change for lining.
Two feet stride the pavement,
walking a carefree line
to count the concrete cracks
and step right over them,
missing the gum-stuck mines,
and coke cans, wind scuttled.
One corner down an alley,
strays this Saturday further;
hairs bristle with a cats’ sense
to disturb the winter scene.
Nothing unusual except for a shop
that pulls my curiousity closer.
Within, glass shaded contents,
antiques with short descrptions
dangle unreadable tags
under a locked display case.
A figurine glints near spotlights,
small, stone crafted, delicate,
maybe Asian in origin of design,
that’s all I can tell, nosed pressed
toon-flat on breath-moist glass,
on seeing the “Open”, inside I go.
Behind a counter appears the keeper,
an inquisitive man, with a glass eye
and a twitch, who is anxious
when the figure is handled,
an efigy of Queen Ritas Bloch,
sold by an Arab who spoke little.
From many hands had it passed,
had even been known to cause fear
in English writers who rarely blocked;
one had flung the statue at a wall,
found later, chewing on an arm,
muttering “I am an internet poet,
published in hugely read zines.
It is my…my destiny!”
He had to be confined,
it was simply for his own good.
An idea forms as the item,
neatly wrapped-up and sealed
leaves the shop in my hand,
this will make an excellent Christmas
present for a certain prolific poet.
A wry smile flickers my face,
afterall, it is a time for the giving
and sometimes we need silent nights.
