I could tell you how many myriad coins have rolled under the register over the years lapsing into dust and stillness, like forgotten library books I could tell you how the sky looked before the flood of ’93, before white fissures cleaved the sky and sizzled rain, before the river grew fat and hungry for more homes, I could tell you of the small and wondrous miracles that I see from behind this register everyday, A kid brother whose great grandpa would buy boxes of Dominican slims that smelled like moist black earth and plantations, A teachers daughter coming in on Tuesdays to buy a loaf of rye, timid as a tin tea-set that tinkles and rattles at the slightest touch, I could tell you about the crate of bananas from south of the border harboring a stow-away tarantula smiling at me with shiny ebony hooks, Or hours after I flip open to closed and the moon is framed in the front bay window, cool, like a slice of honeydew The aisles go on forever, the register – a podium, the number keys like hand-polished nickels, And my own lilting guitar melodies mingle with cricket chirps above the mason jars full of Georgia tobacco and blossoms of virgin eggshell light Like gardenia petals smelling like music and smooth porcelain shine I could tell you how Miss Till’s eyes filled with wet pearls when that letter sent her son away to those eastern wars Spilling red oil in the gutter and grinding bones in greasy gears sent him back in a oak box, while we tried to understand those born-again, gun-point libertines with pockets full of smoking shells I could tell you that springtime sends the town adrift in a sea of honeysuckle and green-growing things and threatens to capsize in blooms and leaves leaving nothing but mailboxes and doormats I could tell you that I’ve stood behind this register and seen three generations of grandfathers buying Dominican slims and daughters buying rye and sons going to war and seasons coming and going while the floorboards still smell like turpentine in the summer and creak like old doors in the winter
I love this. I love the voice I here telling this story. The imagery is both touching and personal, very realistic. I can see everything about this store and the town it's in. A wonderful, wonderful poem. My favourite lines were... Spilling red oil in the gutter and grinding bones in greasy gears sent him back in a oak box, while we tried to understand those born-again, gun-point libertines with pockets full of smoking shells BTW, if I am to be hyper-critical, I don't like 'virgin eggshell'. It doesn't really work. I do like how he said 'a oak' rather than 'an' though. I really heard his voice. While reading this I heard the voice of the Big Chief in One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest telling his story. I could say more... But I won't.
Nice. You should try writing prose. There's so much in there. The only thing that comes to mind on the first read was the lengths of the lines. Were they meant to be that long, or was that a mistake when you posted? That and it would be nice to get more flashes of the reader.
