How long you waited atop a bookcase
At the second-rate thrift shop I do not know,
But you caught my eye with your color
So I lifted you to find your price.
Too undistinguished to call a “vahz,”
You were a “vayz” I thought about after I left.
Due to your color, low stature and price,
And because you were still there when I returned
Two days later, I took you home with me. But why
Am I speaking to you? You are machine-made,
Not shaped by a woman with a kiln.
And the lovely green does not go all the way to your bottom
But quits above a thin irregular layer of clear glass.
I have you now for holding pen and pencils.
Still new, you are something to come home to.
Your color is almost the color of peas
In an opened pod like a birch-bark canoe,
Not as blue a green as a Granny Smith apple’s,
More the green of algae on a sunny pond’s surface.
You have no moods. You are worth the two dollars I paid.
And your color clashed with the copper-red dyed hair
Of the blowsy woman behind the counter at the thrift store,
Who monologues loudly across the floor to customers
And perhaps at home can be a termagant.
