London Thrift

“Let’s hit it.”

Bby grl said so to Bookie,
her bodyguard accountant,
who punched the big-speaker’d stereo.

Bad-ass funk bopped out the boom-box. The couple cut out the apartment, down the elevator,
into the city.

The two shuf-step’d down the block — going shopping,
tune-bumping on the walk.

Speakerboxxx was on Bookie’s right shoulder.

On his left was an armoire of drawers
cuz some days
that bby grl really bought clothes.

“With fashion, there’s only the Present.”

It was an outlook she played by ever since a wee orphan, growing up all on her own
on New York City streets.

It all started @ age sixteen,
when bby grl thought enough peeps looked her way to throw a hat down, pose kitty.

Most folks did pass by looking.

One tossed her two tokens, Knox Golden.

And then one noontime a limousine pulled up.

bby grl said she’d only take a ride
to negotiate a Modeling Contract
to her liking.

Next day she was showcasing new styles, live-modeling her Oliver Twist origins on the streets.

Cameras snapped, coins stacked.

Shows & shoots kept booking.

But on any day she had free, her most favorite thing to do was to go shopping
& bby grl always got hers from London Thrift.

The warehouse was nondescript,
black steel & rusty,
tucked away in Chelsea.

On the door, Bookie knuckle-knocked specially. Door opened.

bby grl dash-stepped inside, aisle-strolling,
not so pleased w/ the viewing.

“This wear’s neither here or there.”

Didn’t take bby grl but seconds
to see what to her was worth wearing.

“Wasting my time ..” she sighed.

as bby grl didn’t sport just anything, but outfit & accessory so vivid, her own.

“This thrift reminds me of dish-soap.” she reflected,
“Soapy watered-down colored fabrics, cut in odd ways.”

Her words cut to the bone of the LT mgmt but somedays @ a thrift shop,
best in show just wasn’t in stock.

She ran her hand
through a rack of blouses, pushed it over.

“Whoops.”

& that bby grl sure was dramatic but entertainment was her biz
& she was bored, mostly.

“Kidding me.”

She stopped by a neon color’d raincoat, reached into the pocket,
pulling out —
“Yesterday’s Paper, literally.”

In her hand was the Times from yesterday; London Thrift, a local treasury.

At this point, she screamed
as shopping with Excalibur taste, even for bby grl, became overwhelming.

“Bookie’ve you a cigarette?”

Bookie had two packs,
& handed bby grl one of hers.

bby grl took a sec, lit up
right there, aisle 9.

Bookie lit up, too.

He fucking hated shopping.

Would crush skulls to get out of going but somebody had to carry
bby grl’s latest
& bby boy sure wouldn’t do so.

She blew a cloud of smoke, long & slow. Felt nicotine.

Suddenly, was noticing —

“Y’see that?”

She was pointing her red hot cigarette-tip to a distant clothes-bin

w/ vision for one in a million.

“Hold this.”

Next thing, bby grl
was reaching her arms up.

Bookie was breathing-in a long drag when she jumped —
flew —
up through London Thrift.

Arcing over,
she dove in a clothes-bin of denim.

The LT mgmt ran up to watch
as bby grl,
enmeshed in an ocean of shades, electric-eeled her body, direction × rhythm
towards which she envisioned.

And it’s worth mentioning
that swimming through clothes just came to bby grl naturally.

Suddenly!

Blow-holing out the Denim Sea,
crowned atop a fount of blue,
bby girl,
aerial flipping through the thrift store, landing right beside Bookie,
raising up the Blue-Jean Baby Blue Jeans she’d found.

“What Stevie Nicks wore in Dreams ..”

Having fished out proper vintage,
she stepped behind a calligraphy screen,

right-quick, slipped into the jeans.

Reaching in her blue-jean back-pocket, she pulled out a Walkie Talkie, pressed & held the button,
which connected her to the intercom:

“Bring in the real, please.”

Along an aisle of
‘Lost Sock’ Collection Boxes,
an Arabian Tent was opening.

A Merchant was unveiling barrels where like gems,
exquisite garments were cached.

“Goods from the Silk Road ..” said the Merchant.

Some days Exotic Fashion
happened bby grl’s way.

she didn’t take it for granted.

without delay she pinged
like a lazr b/w the articles,
discerning eye yay-nay imprompt-choosing.

She cast her choice fashion through the air.

Rainbowing-up from the bazaar, colorful fabrics
yonder-flying across London Thrift.

@ it’s end was Bookie, dash-running around mad w/ armoire, catching outfits,
teeth bit through both his cig & bby’s.

Somehow, he was managing to catch every last piece of fashion —
until a red-white striped top-hat
landed in the top-drawer.

Bookie slammed all four drawers shut fast.

“Miss,” he said,
“No more fashion will fit.”

& bby grl didn’t never not once
want to quit when shopped hot on a spree.

“But it’s like that.”

& she did, after-all, much appreciate all the trouble Bookie’d gone to
to catch her fashion in the drawers so neat.

“So let’s book it.”

bby grl walked out London Thrift.

@ the counter, Bookie reached in his pocket, pulled out / dropped a sack of gold coins, jubilant to be done shopping.

“By the way,”
bby grl was saying to Bookie, “When we get back to the apt we’ve got to go shopping
@ bby gap w/ bby boy.”

as so hearing
Bookie thought to smash down the armoire into a blaze of incredible fire,
but bby’s style counted on him
& so he self-controlled
& tantrum-contained

//for every generation, there’s a bby