He grew up lacking things
some things that is
like a father
and a spare dime.
He grew up spending his last dime
at garage sales–
t-shirts paperbacks
and vinyl records, all in stacks
a dime a dozen.
He grew up stacking dime novels
beside his bed, making
aisles of them,
piles of them,
walls of them
He lined the window sills
with all of them
until they blocked the light.
He grew up listening to albums
from another time
Beatles, Leonard Cohen,
Robert Johnson, Patsy Cline.
Put another dime in the jukebox.
He grew up watching vinyl spin
listening again and again
until he liked it
until he heard it
over the taunts of schoolboys
Where’s your daddy? Serving time
for holding up the Five-and-Dime?
He grew up collecting
dime-a-dozen things, worthless
things that made him feel he was worth a dime
things that made him feel.
evelynwestbrook 