Man-With-Sticky-Fingers
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The clerk-squaw at the corner store where I shoplift has a crush on me. I am discreet, but she is in the concave mirror smiling and winking those over-extended eyelashes when I conceal beef jerky. She is a Chippewa tracker, a fur-traders bride-to-be. Her hatchet-stroked nose translates this as I glance side to side in reconnaissance. I am the beaver and her chance to be Pocahontas. In the bread aisle she leaves bait, gifts and scat like smoke signals, This is my range and I am in heat. I creep silently, fearful for my scalp, yet hungry nonetheless. In ignorance and denial I graze. When I do purchase maize to cover my tracks, she empties the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny cup to save my beadwork. I accept, knowing an extra fifteen cents could be used to buy Manhattan. She has tried to run with me, but I am too canny. As a wild spirit in a white-man’s trench coat, I cannot be tamed. We are not destined to be lovers, for she could be known as Horse-Faced-Thunder. Her plastic name badge says Trigger, of course.

Submitted on 2006-04-06 13:59:50     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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