Goodwill
is
scattered all over the canopied bay
among
the trampled cardboard boxes
and
crumpled bags and soggy sheets.
A
young, moody-faced teen languishes
on
the curb, nodding when spoken to
but
not answering my motion for help.
Figures,
I think, cursing lazy youth,
as
I trot to the back of my car and heave
up
the hatch and begin loading my arms
with
all the added goodwill I can muster:
baubles
that came from Macy’s, canisters
that
once spilled out Gold Medal flour,
baby
dolls that were kissed and held.
No
time for sentiment; tepid rain drips
from
the awning and pools on cracked,
uneven
cement. The scent of moldy
cast-offs
mixes with the mustiness
of
tentative, springtime rain. A sack
of
Christmas candies catches the eye
of
the non-attentive teen; May I?
his
eyes seem to ask. I toss it to him
like
a bridal bouquet. In the rearview
mirror
as I pull away, I see him grinning
as
he digs in the crinkly silver sack.
—Marjie
Giffin
About
the poet: “I
am an Indianapolis writer who has recently been published in Poetry
Quarterly, Flying Island, Snapdragon, Words and Sounds, and in a
teaching anthology. I am active with the Indiana Writers Center and
participate in many workshops.”