rows of worn shoes on
rusting racks above skirts,
sweaters, blouses—musty,
moldy scents—stale,
manure-like from leather
boots dumped at the thrift
store. scratched. yet their
character intact. a high-end
brand, too, she otherwise
could not afford.    willing
to attempt their healing,
she hands over 7.99, takes
them home, sprays lysol, stuffs
with newspaper. later spreads
on oil. conditions, buffs.
maybe it’s the thrill
of bargains when the world
pays little, taxes much–or
curious imagining of its
abandoned life. did money
make former owner happy?
or maybe it’s just that
the boots spoke to her,
said, get me, i’m cool, too.