Micropoetry Monday: Children of the 80s & 90s

Payphone

She lived a life of handwritten thank you notes
in her signature cursive,
of love letters on floral stationery,
scented with White Shoulders,
& glossy postcards in paper rather than pixels,
stamped with the country
from whence they came.
The tactile experience of opening an envelope
from the aluminum mailbox
at the end of her driveway
became something quaint,
for such occurrences were seldom.
Rather than travel through cyberspace,
her words traveled through real space
with last night’s coffee stain on a story
she’d bled all over with a red pen.
So tenaciously,
she held on to her grandmother’s record collection,
her grandfather’s stamp collection,
& her collection of old photos that had no digital form.
Such items were precious to her,
for they were remnants of a time
that was now fading into black.

She was a tattoo artist,
he, a sandwich artist.
They loved to argue over whose art
mattered more;
she believed his lasted for a meal,
hers, for a lifetime,
& the graffiti artist,
sick of their public screeds
at the comic book shop,
Instagrammed their creations,
so that the creations of
Mr. Sammich & Tit-4-Tatted
would endure forever.

When J.C. Drew,
the “New You” self-help guru,
whose tagline was
“Be an activist for you!”
preyed on the people of Seneca Falls
by convincing them that their current selves
weren’t good enough
so that they became dissatisfied
with their wonderful lives,
Moxie Carmichael gave him a piece of her mind,
which was the one piece nobody could change.

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