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(The poet ~ who, at nineteen, was seeking a pawn shop in which to leave her silver flute for the few days remaining before funds became available in the middle of a lengthy road trip ~ ran across the shop described below tucked into one edge of one of those old block-long adobe tire shop/garages still to be found sometimes in the more antiquated sections of downtown American cities.

Though not a pawn shop, this shopkeeper did offer to lend the poet twenty dollars (a lot more money then) if she would play the flute for him before leaving it with him.

On her return several days later she hailed him with, “I don’t know whether you remember me…”

The man smiled.

“How could I ever forget you?” he responded.

Back at her temp clerical position, the poet composed the following offering, running back at lunch time to give him a copy. Finding the little store closed, she tucked it into the old fashioned mail slot in the shop door.

Years later she found herself coming back through that same city, with the same companion ~ an adult twenty years her senior ~ who had been with her when they’d discovered the shop.

Together, they walked completely around that old adobe building.

Then they walked around it again.

And again.

They ducked inside of open bay doorways. They studied the building’s structure, noted any newer looking adjustments to it.

It wasn’t just that the shop no longer existed.

There was no place in that building where it could ever have been.)

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Recorded Reading (2:55): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/toezbshpn1iidb3lnos81/The-Spirit-of-the-Shop.wav?rlkey=gzl2n7a31ajv125ma60jhjl99&dl=0

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The Spirit of the Shop

Once upon a time I chanced to stop
In a tiny antiquated shop
Set round the wall
Each little doll
Shook its curly headed mop
And smiled upon it all

The man who ran the little store
Kept an armchair by the door
Upon it sat a lovely book
Opened wide for all to look
Which is what lovely books are for

A helping hand he lent to me
Charging not the smallest fee
In this life it is passing rare
A stranger lends his friendship free

I think at night he turns to smoke
And, smiling at his little joke,
Disappears into his little lamp
As into a peaceful camp
Where rich reward for loving thought’ll
Come to him inside his bottle

*****

This poet is physically disabled. Public housing being insufficient to her medical and creative needs, she is presently living, in order to continue working, in her minivan, publishing all of her works using one thumb on the touch screen of her smartphone, surviving at an income of a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. She would treasure any donation you might care to offer ~ http://www.UgiftABLE.com ● #72D-31S.

Please be aware that it takes several days for the poet to be notified of contributions. International patrons please contact the poet via email or post a comment for the necessary numbers.

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