Weight was for sale,
men carried bathroom scales.
The guy who shined
my shoes had a portrait
of Marilyn Monroe
on the side of his box.
A timer bell signaled
when the job was done,
and a taxi pulled up
(Jayne Mansfield
painted on the door).
All the cars were
vintage American.
Some were like those my
father had owned but these
Turkish chariots were mint.
I chose not to smoke
a Hookah and took the safe
route in a pipe shop (photos
of Tony Curtis and Charles
Bronson decorating the wall).
The proprietor sold me
the Meerschaum model he
swore those stars favored.
Weight salesmen made
their pitches as I left the store
and it didn’t occur to me
that they were curious
as to just how much
the average sucker weighed.
The pipe was a work of art
but neither blow torch
nor Hollywood
special effects could
have broken in
that
precious son of a “B”
movie.
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