Millie
Chumash Casino
She greets you by the front desk
of the 24-hour café in the Indian casino,
grabs a menu, escorts you to a small booth,
takes your order for tea and toast.
Her breasts battle
her beige polyester blouse,
requisite brass name tag
pinned to a pocket.
You watch her thick legs
as she walks away, notice
spider veins and bruises,
guess her age at 50 plus,
imagine she no more than survives
on minimum wage.
She reminds you of a million
other poverty level women
in tedious low paid jobs,
picture a dismal home life,
know a generous tip
won’t change a thing.
She comes back to bring jam,
refill your teapot,
asks if you need anything else,
lays your check on the table,
keeps on smiling until her shift ends.
You liken her to a Rodin sculpture,
a suggestion of struggle, grief,
and incomplete form.
Bargain Hunter
I go shopping for words,
not as one would for new shoes
or groceries, but with my ears,
the small hairs in inner chambers
shivering with anticipation
of some fresh merger of noun
and verb, a three-word phrase
implausibly accurate.
Song lyrics, book titles,
magazine ads,
newspaper headlines,
commonplace figures of speech,
become original
with the variation of an adjective,
unexpected fusion of images,
a haunting word.
I’m an oniomaniac*
of words, a bibliophage*,
add them to my vocabulary,
swap lexicology like anagrams
in my head.
I collect tittle-tattle at thrift stores,
and restaurants, listen in
on conversations
for lingual surprises,
rhetorical questions I can explore
past their apparent reply.
I pay nothing for indigenous
expressions of strangers
and regional archaisms,
tuck them into my notebooks
for reserve stock.
I've even been known to shoplift,
a bucolic verse kleptomaniac
from the racks of greeting cards,
jot down a jingle or two
when no one is looking.
My cupboards are crammed
with Costco-sized containers.
I have enough
babble and bunk,
horsefeathers,
bombastic balderdash,
and poppycock
to last the rest of my life.
In addition to poetry, Laura Bayless explores creativity through collage, photography, and absurdity. Formerly shy, she now delights in requests to read her poems to strangers.
Next:
Chumash Casino
She greets you by the front desk
of the 24-hour café in the Indian casino,
grabs a menu, escorts you to a small booth,
takes your order for tea and toast.
Her breasts battle
her beige polyester blouse,
requisite brass name tag
pinned to a pocket.
You watch her thick legs
as she walks away, notice
spider veins and bruises,
guess her age at 50 plus,
imagine she no more than survives
on minimum wage.
She reminds you of a million
other poverty level women
in tedious low paid jobs,
picture a dismal home life,
know a generous tip
won’t change a thing.
She comes back to bring jam,
refill your teapot,
asks if you need anything else,
lays your check on the table,
keeps on smiling until her shift ends.
You liken her to a Rodin sculpture,
a suggestion of struggle, grief,
and incomplete form.
Bargain Hunter
I go shopping for words,
not as one would for new shoes
or groceries, but with my ears,
the small hairs in inner chambers
shivering with anticipation
of some fresh merger of noun
and verb, a three-word phrase
implausibly accurate.
Song lyrics, book titles,
magazine ads,
newspaper headlines,
commonplace figures of speech,
become original
with the variation of an adjective,
unexpected fusion of images,
a haunting word.
I’m an oniomaniac*
of words, a bibliophage*,
add them to my vocabulary,
swap lexicology like anagrams
in my head.
I collect tittle-tattle at thrift stores,
and restaurants, listen in
on conversations
for lingual surprises,
rhetorical questions I can explore
past their apparent reply.
I pay nothing for indigenous
expressions of strangers
and regional archaisms,
tuck them into my notebooks
for reserve stock.
I've even been known to shoplift,
a bucolic verse kleptomaniac
from the racks of greeting cards,
jot down a jingle or two
when no one is looking.
My cupboards are crammed
with Costco-sized containers.
I have enough
babble and bunk,
horsefeathers,
bombastic balderdash,
and poppycock
to last the rest of my life.
In addition to poetry, Laura Bayless explores creativity through collage, photography, and absurdity. Formerly shy, she now delights in requests to read her poems to strangers.
Next: