I am Christmas shopping at the mall,

minding my own business, crossing the concourse,

the tiled sea dotted with kiosks, those retail islands,

when a young woman accosts me with a warm smile,

asking, “Excuse me sir, may I show you something?”

It will only take a minute.” Pert and petite, with an accent

vaguely European, but hard to place, she reels me in

like a sea bass in a moment of weakness.

She says, “Do you take care of your nails?”

I admit that I don’t. “Give me your hand.”

I offer my left, my writing hand. She takes a large

emery board and sands the surface of my left thumbnail,

then with other surfaces of the same board,

each smoother than the last, buffs it to a glossy shine.

She applies cuticle oil, and hand cream made

of something from the Dead Sea. “Do you bite your nails?”

As if that weren’t obvious. She shows me the result,

a dazzling, manicured thumbnail. “That shine will last a month.”

She presents the gift pack of all these products,

forty dollars, special this week only. I decline.

“Oh, but why?” she asks with a rehearsed pout.

I make some lame excuse and say I’ll think about it.

(I don’t intend to.) But a funny thing happens.

A week later, regarding my still-shiny nail,

I am thinking about it.

It was very savvy of that young huckstress

to leave me an indelible sample of her product,

one that shows itself every time I write.

And isn’t that just what I’m trying to do --

pull people in with my poetry, give something lasting

to take away with them, something I hope would survive

longer than a good manicure?

12/02/2003

Posted on 12/03/2003
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt