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,
and inside,
a fucking weaving loom
that's seen the hands of generations,
that's built the hands of generations,
and like a true tide,
force abides,
legions wide.

A craft store:
flower-painted vases,
empty wooden picture frames,
and somewhere in there,
a life,
spark of sparks.

When it glows, let us know.
Fucking craft store.