Permanent Wave
Mary, the cashier
at Community Thrift Store,
winks at me and slips the sweater
into my bag for free.
This stuff’s give us to anyway, she says.
I smile, gratefully befuddled.
Somewhere between acquaintance and stranger
is the province of our relationship.
Mary seems to think it’s more.
I park and walk into Bert’s Vinyls,
the used record shop I frequent.
Bert nods. I smile, discover Revolver,
the album I’ve been looking for.
I pay Bert but get nothing free.
Bert and Mary both fit into a file folder
I keep
that’s disposable.
Inside the folder are the store clerk
at the grocer’s, a mechanic who changes oil,
and neighbors two doors down whom I wave to
but whose names I forget.
I know someday someone won’t be there—
the college age cashier at the cafe will graduate
or marry,
move on to a different stage of life,
Bert might die
or the store could close or both.
That’s why I keep my disposable folder
far from my center, far from my heart
to keep my sweaters from damage.
I don’t want tears to stain them, or my heart
to rip open and bleed.
I’m not good with change. I like things
that remain the same,
which means nothing.
