We’re tripping at the thrift store before lunch.
Compulsion is a noisy swarm of geese.
We wear the surgeon’s mask to stop the dust.
We’re rescue angels wearing pale, pink gloves.
A Louis Vuitton leather purse; a gown
for fifty cents. An old Mark Twain is found.
A ghostly pall hangs over all debris;
their carted carcass soon to burning hell.
We’re mourning hoarders called to love again.
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blank verse , iambic pentameter , narrative poetry , Poetry , thrift store , verse
About jacquelinecaseypoetry
Retired teacher. I write for the sheer joy of it. Prefer form over free verse. Favorite: English sonnet. Attended University of Florida and Florida Atlantic University, Taught High School English in the '70's.
Freelance Photographer for Hallmark Greeting Card Company in the '70's. Doll Design: sold my fabric/clay figures and patterns online in 1980's from here to Australia. My work appeared in major Doll magazines. Still busy writing poetry age 84 this year.
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photo:Michael Bartlett
This is a great line: Compulsion is a noisy swarm of geese.
I could smell the dust and the clutter is claustrophobic. Nice job!
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Yeah, Meg. I speak from experience…
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Oh, Meg picked my favorite line. Great visual texture here. I love the contrast of “pale, pink gloves” and “burning hell.”
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The lines “tripping at the thrift store” and “mourning hoarders called to love again” make me think there’s a rap star in you. There’s such cadence and assonance in those phrases.
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my grandchildren would get a kick out of your calling me a ‘rapper’, lol
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