thrift store shopping on the Upper East Side
on a snowy Christmas Eve.
My best friend and me,
my first year back from Hawaii,
traipsing from store to store,
plundering the exquisite cast-aways
of the rich and famous,
laughing as we paid Wal-Mart prices
for Bloomingdale’s goods.
Walking the streets of Madison Avenue
we were the poor relatives from Brooklyn,
living in a broken-down building on the edge of Bed-Stuy,
paying $80 for rent,
setting roach traps every night before bed,
living on mac and cheese and tuna casserole.
The subway, our magic carpet ride,
transported us Uptown, to indulge our pleasure of “thrifting,”
our friendship deepened by the love of the hunt,
the clicking of the hangers as we pushed through
dresses, sweaters, pants, shirts, trying on shoes
and hats and scarves, so joyful to find a bargain
that matched our desire for that very thing,
and smug, thinking we looked like a million bucks.
We walked miles in that pure snow,
on those safe streets,
welcoming shops full of abundance
and the good cheer of Christmas in the City,
softened, everything softened
by snow, Christmas lights, happy people.
It was night as we neared the subway
to go home. Gathering our bags
around us, we sat down on the long bench
that ran the length of the train car.
We lurched toward the next stop.
The doors opened and a drunk man got on.
He looked around, and seeing the bench empty,
staggered forward, sat down beside me,
put his head in my lap,
and fell asleep.
© Evie Safran, 2018
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| Snow in New York, by Robert Henri in the collection of the National Gallery of Art from Wikimedia Commons |
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