Lights Up On The Store
Bobbing quaintly, boyant amid the darkness.
We came to this craft store, here, of all places.
This fucking craft store.
Inside, tawdry baubles, hand-painted bullshit.
This incandescent, fluorescent bullshit
feeding my growing resentment.
All the way out here, bobbing merily
What does the darkness know of this?
Hardly it fills
fill, I meant.
Hardly it sighs,
a fucking weaving loom
that's seen the hands of generations,
that's built the hands of generations,
and like a true tide,
A craft store:
empty wooden picture frames,
and somewhere in there,
spark of sparks.
When it glows, let us know.
Fucking craft store.