Momentary attractions

There's an old woman with glazed eyes,
in a diner in a small town,
who is quietly eating french fries,
seated by walls that are quilted wonders;
chrome reflections of the colors
in the glass box, filled with stuffed bears,
frogs and cobras, cats and clowns
that the children spend their dollars on
just to manipulate the robot grabbing arm
til it lands on the desired plaything,
picks it up and then propels it
down the special chute to ownership,
where it's treasured for a moment --
for an evening, or a weekend --
then discarded or recycled
to the loving arms of another child,
or perhaps left in a basket
on an abandoned pink bicycle,
where it sits in a vacant lot,
losing color to the sunshine;
gazing, sightless, at the rain.


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