“Do you want the Purple Heart stamp?” the clerk suggests. That’s it, you say, “And I’ve got one.”
PURPLE HEART, PURPLE CHEEKS BY PAMELA SUMNERS 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 70
You’re a nasty old man who doesn’t hold doors for ladies
(not that I expect you to, but since you’re old, I’d hold
one for you). But you boorishly slug your way through
the post office line, parting seas of waiting patrons like Moses.
Even older men are shaking their heads at you, mumbling
“Me too.” You’re on a hostile mission but you can’t remember
what’s tumbling from a postage stamp, or a grocer’s receipt,
like that one for apricot brandy, Jolly Ranchers, and Mad Dog
we can see while you’re fumbling for that crumpled-up bill.
You want one stamp, a particular one, but you just can’t recall
and rumble your stubbly unpleasant iron jaws at one and all.
“Do you want the Purple Heart stamp?” the clerk suggests.
That’s it, you say, “And I’ve got one.” She sighs, puts your number
in a bin labeled “I’m trash,” with a happy-face on it…