Poets' Practice Pad

          (about a cashier)

I still hear the music of
her fingers tapping
numbers; she does not comprehend
who the child is.

First, I stare
long
at her, without blinking, while
the shimmer of a distant light
from her hair--the blonde smudge
on burnt umber--writhes
to infiltrate my retina,
mismatching the frail blossoms,
rather the thistles, of young years.
My tongue, burning, tastes ginger,
the hidden roots of evil,
and I laugh
out loud,
with repetition,
pointing a finger
at her. Look,
who's the tyrant now!

Not good manners, but revenge
is sweet, and
this is the woman
my father ran away with.






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