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.