the devil is in
designer clothes
the devil is in designer clothes
or maybe they’re knock-offs
she tells everyone on the subway
that she got the blouse in india
when she was there last summer
only three bucks, she says
i knocked him down from five
i think, well, at least there’s one person
coming out like roses in the global economy
i live in jersey, she says
for no reason
and when i get home i got a pitcher of margaritas
waiting for me
an old asian woman nods and smiles
keeps looking at the next train stop
you need margaritas
on a hot day like this, she says,
looking around
but people are engrossed in their gadgets
in each other
only i’m dumb enough
to be on this train with no other diversion
she looks me up and down
focuses on the bag at my feet
with a famous liquor store’s name
emblazoned on the front
what you got in there, sweetheart?
she says
as we come upon my stop
the rest of my afternoon, i tell her
as i rise and head out the doors
even as the train pulls away
i can hear her laughing and repeating
what i just said
the rest of my afternoon, she cackles
did yeah hear him?
did yeah?
as the train disappears into black oblivion
and the quiet envelops me
like a set of warm, soft mother’s hands.
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