Damaged Merchandise

Every store, shop, and diner has regulars-
people that consume space
and make it their second place of rest.
The retired soldier that walks to Barnes & Noble
to find chess books for study,
cheap refills of coffee
and captures the young baristas with a story;
or the three teens that go play pool
at the local café, day after day;
or Ms. Williams, who comes into my dollar store to buy ginger snaps and cleaning supplies.
Every day, she goes up and down each aisle
like a hamster with mad-cow disease
would wander a maze. Amazingly,
she finds every piece of broken merchandise to place before my eyes:
“This pregnancy test was open, I just thought you should know”
“Thank you, Ms. Williams,” is all I say.
If she knew I’d fix the problem with scotch-tape
and put it back on the shelf,
she would look at me like I just jerked-off
in her denture tub.
But last week’s toy gun that escaped
the shackles of breadtwistees was
a bit ridiculous!  Ms. Williams would cross
paths with me outside,
as I fill the atmosphere with the cigarettes
I smoke / I smoke / I smoke
on break in an eight-hour day.
I hand out cigs and cents to whoever asks
including the transients that pass
and Ms. Williams informs me I shouldn’t
hand out to those that walk about the streets,
“It’s a worthless cause.”
How funny.
This is coming from the old lady
that patrols my aisles and smiles
at merchandise defiled
and realize with a sense of false epiphany,
there is no harmony in the song she sings.
She thinks people are like damaged merchandise-
once things aren’t perfect just toss it aside,
and neglect it for life’s duration.
I want to tell her that people are like pennies,
dents are made, colors fade, edges worn,
but the value will always remain the same.
She sees me outside.
She hands me a pair of broken shears,
The blade is broken, but it still cuts.
Instead of telling her I’ll fix the problem with a fake
customer service smile-
we see a man searching through a dumpster.
With Ms. Williams next to me, we
hand the shears to the man
who shines a toothless grin,
exposing Ms. Williams to something she doesn’t normally see:
Gratitude.
The next day,
I am restocking furniture polish
when Ms. Williams extends a crumpled piece of paper from her hand, and I recognize the handwriting.
She found a haiku that I wrote and threw away several days ago:
Dumpsterdiving, she
climbed into me and kept what
others threw away.