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The Corner Thrift Store
She wears simple clothes
with not a tear in the fabric,
with not a single button missing,
bought from the corner thrift store—
a scarf the color of buckwheat honey;
a skirt as black as a bell at midnight;
a chemise beaded with row upon row
of tiny white shells
gathered just before dawn.
I never tire of watching her
in her element:
the thrift store at the corner,
where the sidewalk is almost level,
and a sign in the window
says they have an opening
for someone who speaks Latin—
perhaps she will apply.
