Patchouli oil and Sandolino’s coffee drift down West 4th Street past the sandal maker’s where musicians jam on weekend nights The crackling smell of new leather reach upper level shops where hand embroidered peasant tops trade like contraband and serve as entrance to a world where no one yet wastes away from a disease for which there is no remedy or name. Diagonally from the cigar shop iron green rails hold cement stairs and lead underground to the southbound. In front of the old Stonewall’s it’s quiet, just pigeons pecking at bagel scraps. I work the cash register and fill the racks: fantasy in the back, music by the door, trade paper running down the middle. On a plywood harvest table. Holding my flowered skirt, climbing ladders to reach overstock I drink in a new sense of ownership: Just back from Europe, no college degree. Once the bookstore had been a pharmacy with a swiveling rack of paperbacks so popular the owners had to give in to what the neighborhood wanted. Unnumbered streets, a crisscross of skewed geography where nothing rests parallel except the edges of new type drawn from box cut cartons with spines yet unopened.
Elisabeth Weiss teaches writing. She’s taught in colleges, preschools, prisons, and nursing homes, as well as to the intellectually disabled. She has an MFA from The University of Iowa Writers Workshop. She’s published poems in London Poetry Review, Porch, Crazyhorse, Birmingham Poetry Review, Paterson Literary Review and many other journals. Lis won the Talking Writing Hybrid Poetry Prize for 2016. The Caretaker’s Lament was published by Finishing Line Press in 2016.
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the last three lines complete the scene with succinct perfection:
"where nothing rests parallel
except the edges of new type
drawn from box cut cartons with spines yet unopened."
I’m not going to stick my riverslapped lightwood oar in cos it’s worn to my old boat. But I hear Lawrence Ferlinghetti in this and it’s a warm comfortable feeling. I’m not a city boy or even American, but it’s as if these upper level people are my own