Mag 297

Tess Kincaid

I went to market, my girders bundled.

Morsels of malodorous paper pressed

between my stubby blue fingers.

I buy things when I am lonely

for the company of shuffling feet

and smiles tucked way up behind

the ears, almost vertical, like

the mouths nightmares incite.

I no longer remember why I came

only that I have wasted more time

than I have spent. I stand here,

shifting my glaciers pondering

our “suchness”. I am queasy

at the thought of all the “yous”

I might encounter. I sprint from

hollow to hollow, untraceable.

I have been something of a scrooge this year I am afraid. Each year X-mas seems to start earlier and earlier. I tend to think it is the shops trying to milk a little more cash out of the holidays (at least that is what my inner cynic tells me). By November everyone else in the neighborhood was already pimped out for the holidays. I tend to lose steam if I start too early. The special X-mas foods I desperately look forward to all year can get tiring if I start munching away prematurely (oops already did that!). My-mother-in-law is utterly bored with X-mas foods and asked my husband to make dinner this year and just make something altogether different. I have that meeting today! Yeeps.