Dime Store Dreams

Life is a dime-store dream

in a poor part of town

where ignorant people buy imitation life
pre-packaged in white styrofoam trays
embossed with fleur de lis,
imported from some godforsaken country
no one remembers.

Shoppers grunt and push rickety carts 
with rusted wheels stuck in one direction,
like a one-way street
where the stoplights are always red.
Screeching around aisle corners, 
on linoleum floors littered with bits of CrackerJack
crunching under worn soles
of homely shoes.

Patrons pick the shelves clean
of this week’s two-bit dreams:
Misspelled Valentines at Thanksgiving.
And one-size-fits-all rain ponchos in a seven-year drought.

Kids with long faces,
wearing hand-me-downs
two sizes too big,
race to an empty gumball machine
to put their coins in the slot
and turn the busted knob
click - clack - click.
Poised with cupped hands under the chute,
hoping to catch a dime-store dream.