To enter the pinched interior
of T. R. Wolfe’s Toy and Candy,
was to risk your squint
that branded every kid
a thieving urchin,
straight from Dickens.
Your hair pulled back
into a coarse, gray stone,
your face bony and sad—
as we’d tap our fingers
against the counter glass
to pronounce our choice
of pink cigarettes cloaked
in sugary smoke. Or,
from the sundry collection
of jigsaw puzzles, lining
the store’s high-shelved
perimeter: our choice
of Barbie and Ken’s
dream house, the cockpit
of a Concorde, UFO’s
over a Midwest wheat farm.
Puzzles that would spread
like sea garbage
across our bedroom floors.
How can it be that this
is what was given you?
Not a pursuit of quiet,
brainy labor: reading
the ash in Nile River mud.
Or studying the remains of prey
inside the restless borders
of an amoeba. Only
the daily repetition of warm coins
passing from our hands
into yours. And how
can I not admire you
for your refusal to feign contentment.
Whatever it was you wanted,
getting us instead.
