two women in a
bookstore
they come in
giggle-tripping down the narrow aisles
fashion scarves, knock-off bags and designer leather
disturbing whatever viola abomination
the surly long-haired clerk had been playing
fondle everything like small children
picking up books and tossing them
like cans of corn into a shopping basket
schopenhauer and nietzsche flung about
you can catch some words in between
the gangly cadence of american slang
sounding like buddhist chants with chewing gum
derivatives of oh and my and god
so you hide in the poetry section
because who goes there?
but even that’s no good
soon they are right next to you
reality tv babble bumping you at every turn
selfies galore
these women will one day photograph
their own decent into hell
and you wonder how they found this place at all
this hole-in-the-wall bookstore
that mostly fronts as a bully pulpit for old men
angry about not getting more money for their used copy of
zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance
what turn from big buildings and flashing lights
these women took to be here now
looking for books by george-what’s-his-name
the guy who wrote that book 1983 or 1989
no, silly, one of them says to the other
that’s the title of taylor swift’s album
and they both squeal at the name of their pop diva
forget old george and his dystopia
because who needs it anyway?
when it’s right here
singing off-key pop songs in your ear
crouched down like two idiots
taking wide-mouthed pictures
with a sleeping and bored overfed alley cat
checking bright cell phones with taylor swift ringtones
wondering when this is over
where they can get some cheesecake flavored fro-yo
or a real, authentic new york slice. 
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