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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 dont. 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 <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Dead Sea. Do you bite your nails?

As if that werent 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 Ill think about it.

(I dont 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 isnt that just what Im 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