You probably have a war surplus or government surplus store
here as there is one everywhere.
This is a poem about the one in Portland
and all the mysterious things in it
and what they suggested to me.
"The War Surplus Store."
"The man in the war surplus store
said, you had to lie in the '20s when
he sold shoes to women with greater than size five feet.
Now he sells to us the men's clothes,
clodhoppers, and creels with a mature sense of honesty.
He says his boss tells him this is not a high class store.
But what a cheap good life!
It could provide mattresses, thin, black and white stacked
dailies or hammered beef steaks, baklava or weighty tortes.
Buy one and sleep.
Or imagine you own all its likenesses.
Here is a buxom cubic pillow with a slit
to accommodate even a large head tired of traffic.
Yet I can't imagine backwards to what it genuinely is.
A frayed signal flag, certain prayer rags, a Missouri radio
revivalist sends for a considerable donation.
Towards the back, the must thickens.
Towards the corridor dressing room between veteran banner
and window.
From there, one can spy the boss.
Nosed and mustached like a Greek fisherman.
Though wearing a pink blotched sailor hat,
camouflage if he fights in rhododendrons.
How good to be counted among the surplus.
The extra like cream that never reached bottom.
So the khaki is worn out on women and working men.
And we pay only small prices for items from the tables
as numerous as the states."