Once driven by need, now I go thrifting for sport.
In Women’s Clothing I sort through pre-owned blouses, handbags,
shoes;
survey cook-pots, toasters, bins of kitchen utensils in Housewares.
The woman beside me fingers wooden spoons,
mismatched cutlery, a wire whisk; lifts a mixing bowl,
sets it down, hefts chunky white restaurant mugs.
While she tallies prices, counts cash, her son reads
“The Adventures of Curious George” to his sisters.
Matching pink dresses—lace collars and cuffs,
bows tied behind like butterflies’ wings—the twins preen
in their mother’s handiwork. Brother’s white shirt is buttoned
up to his chin, bluejeans pressed with a crease.
Do they live in an apartment, a trailer? Does she have steady work,
decent pay? I recall starting from scratch in an unfamiliar country,
creating a home for my small son from other people’s leavings.
Brother’s fingertip scrolls down the page. Noses crinkled,
lips pursed, the girls sound out English words.
He frowns, ¡Atención, niñas! En inglés se dice así…
Mother gives up a saucepan, agrees to one book—
¡No más uno!—quells dissent with an eyebrow.
Brother returns three books to the shelf.
Shoulders squared, Mother guides her children
past oblique glances toward the checkout stand,
shadowed by a Thrift-Mart employee.
In line, a beet-faced shopper carps about those people.
