for tom and kathryn
Balding under his beret, the man
stood, lofty and leaning, leafing through
cards in plexiglass casing. Off and on
goes the cap and so goes my attitude
about him -- pretension easily added
and subtracted. Then he speaks
to the lady to his left -- Say-la-veeeee --
a thick French drawl. Beret off, pretension
still on. I am strangely dismayed.
Over they come, a curious pair, she, short
and frazzled with a dueling accent
I cannot decipher. The man fans four cards
across my counter and asks, "Way-er kin
I git postcarrrds? She wants 'em." I stare, slightly
stupored, before offering advice that will lead them
out of my store, but only after they give me what
they owe. She starts to dig in her red leather clutch
for what my British tourists call shrapnel, coins
clinking together with unfamiliar clarity.
"They don't take Tuuuurkish money here," he chides
and he winks at me. I take his American
currency and catch a glimpse of his American ID --
California-based. He slides his beret back on
and gives a flick of the wrist wave. "Buh-bye now."
She smiles, strained, and I wonder if they'll find
the postcards they seek. I'll never know, probably,
and that lingers long enough on my mind to write this down.
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