Rainy Day Sale
Sy Roth


Outside rain slips and slides off the snow mounds
left behind by the last storm.
Cars park awkwardly into spaces hidden by packed snow
a helter-skelter assortment of toys absurdly arrayed
before shrines where purveyors peck and sniff
for promised bargains on sale day.

Shuffling masses loaded with buys jostle one another with gusto.
Some seek an oasis in the shoe department, unexpected isle of calm,
quiet watering hole among the sixty-five percent off signs for designer shoes.
A Bundy giant stood among the footwear,
eyes darting back and forth like roller blades on a busy Manhattan street.
His sonar pings for the errant customer who might find succor on his xeric slopes.
Desultory conversation flies like chaff among the salespeople.
His lips respond, eyes disentangle like loose laces.
They heave along the bouncing sea swells beyond.
A maladroit camel, he moves aimlessly among the displayed footwear,
touches them to prove their existence,
OCDer lines them up, soldiers prepared for battle, then
lumbers to a spot beside the racks, fingers jouncing jousters,
steed ready, itching for engagement.
Masses’ ebb and flow synch him with their desires
for nano moments as sales swirl around him.
He checks his watch often
to see if time has moved among the shoes.