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OLD BAG or THE GOVERNMENT IS CONTRACTING FOR MORE OF THESE
by Linda Fullerit was a bag of some voluminosity
green velveteen corduroy ribs
riding high in the kiddie seat
of Marie’s shopping cart with a bad
front left wheel she curses loudly
monotonously rocking the cart to start
forward again.
“what’s in it for me, what treasures
await?” as she plunges her hands
into overflowing newspapers and cola cups
cigarette butts and sprung cassette tapes
no dead babies today thank you god.
she makes her way, one bad wheel, two bad
feet, down the street, mind in the gutter,
searching for clues, reading her fortune
in pigeon droppings, it’s looking bleak.
her eyes swivel rustily in turtle sockets,
resting on condoms and coins (pluck ‘em up)
raised to billboards proclaiming
Angelyne and Tanqueray.
her cart totters and tips, her newspapers
and cans are all over the sidewalk, her
capacious green bag upends but nothing
spills out; its snap latch of clasped hands
holds. “oh shit, oh mewling puking shit”
as she rights her cart and shovels the contents
back in. she strokes the rough velveteen hide
crooning “s’okay, s’okay, we’re fine, we’re fine”
her knitting bag of needles and mace.
***
the long sweet slide of red wine
leaves her breathless and spun,
she hums tunelessly pushing the cart and looking
for a place to shit. a place she knows between
two buildings (it’s not the May Co. tearoom)
and she’s off again, powered on the wine,
skirting passersby with copper Lincoln profiles
a hot rush of Opium, Passion, Joy.
one pink plastic curler nestles
in her frowsy hair. she’s lost now
in memories swollen with milk
glass candy dishes, clotted cream
on strawberry shortcake. hands
lizard-like for lack of spinach
and pears hieroglyph the air.
sweat grimes the folds under her breasts.
crack vials twinkle in her sidesight
out of sight, out of her mind, out of touch,
no one to touch her.
***
monday was a clean Nebraska
rooming house (her sister’s) and children
to read to about Winnie the Pooh and Yertle
the Turtle and the Velveteen Rabbit
who became real through touch.
tuesday was a thin-walled motel room
confederate army pictures and rutting grunts
from the other side.
wednesday was another motel room
flights of ducks and social insecurity
checks, whiskey wine and rough-cheeked
men grunting on her side.
thursday was a bench al fresco
headboard touting Forest Lawn
or H&R Block.
friday was a national guard armory
open for the rain though the rain leaves
her dry, just passes through her
cracks it seems.
today Marie’s invisible in a sunbeam.
she takes her green velveteen corduroy
bag, dumps the needles and mace, sets it
on top of her head like a bonnet, grasps
both sides, pulls it down around her shoulders
shimmies it over her hips, rolls it past her knees,
tucks up her feet and she’s gone.
04/29/2012 Author's Note: An old one. This cries out for editing/paring, but I don't got it in me.
Posted on 04/30/2012
Copyright © 2024 Linda Fuller
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Joe Cramer on 04/30/12 at 11:32 AM ... excellent..... |
| Posted by Gregory R Schelske on 05/02/12 at 03:08 PM Oh, Linda. I had to read this twice. I love it. Very well thought out and written. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 09/01/12 at 10:20 PM The excellent descriptiveness and story telling of this piece easily balances out any doubts I have at least in your need to revise it, but as you are the creator, I can toally relate to that urge. Brilliant capture of what happens in any North American city on any given day. Touché! |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 09/02/12 at 10:24 AM Having known a homeless woman who was close to me once, this poem resonates so very richly Linda..and no, do not touch or edit or pare it...it is perfect as it is! |
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