Owed to the 99 Cent Store by Joshua Bennett

Owed to the 99 Cent Store

 

You are a kind of utopia,

you know. God’s garage.

Counter-hegemonic

 

magic, how you tug

on a dollar bill

until it becomes an open

 

field, how you mock semiotics,

offering products which often

belie your professed mission,

 

your wondrous intentions,

all these too-expensive toasters,

fragile dishes, ironing boards

 

that make Mom appeal to American

Express as backup, her escape

route from unplanned shame.

 

You ain’t have to do us like that.

But I peeped game, I know you

just like everyone else, hoping

 

to hustle your way off

this ziggurat block, all these

poor folks stacked on top

 

of one another like tropes.

Your true currency

is the cheer of children,

 

the love of learners

under duress, black or white

notebooks I still call upon

 

in hopes that these,

my most harried dreams,

might have rest, shelter

 

when smartphones give in,

fading to moonless wan

like everything else

 

around here. You persist.

You tenacious meditation

on excess. You candy bars

 

& batteries when pilot

lights kissed us no more

& Swedish Fish

 

were the best high we know

or could afford.

You smorgasbord.

 

You sweet ecology.

You philosophy of boys

that have not yet learned

 

the wiring of value.

You neon name.

You anti-nihilism.

 

You clarion call

to the righteous

singing come fill

 

& be filled