Closure

Native American Gallery, the sign promises
outside this uptown-looking store, and
inside, touristy browsers
checkout baskets
point out masks to one another
try on the silver jewelry
exchange pleasantries with the saleslady
while some kind of new age music
tinkles quietly from hidden speakers.

Heavy industrial noise of closure, a
roomful of sphincters tightening in
response to my intrusion, and
suddenly all pretend to focus on the
nearest art object, everyone, that is
except the svelte saleslady, who
watches and watches, unblinking
lest some valuable trinket
might leap into my knapsack.

Finding no rich young women
to kidnap and drag away to my teepee,
no fairfaced children to carry off,
not even any horses to capture, it seems all
a waste of time, except for some amusement at
conversations resuming upon my empty-handed exit,
when through the closing door wafts the
saleslady's behind-her-hand whisper,
"Given half a chance they'll steal you blind."

Yeah, sure. They already did, enit?

©2005 Thomas Hubbard