MUSTARD JAR

The 24-karat word stares aloofly back at me as I press my blue-collar nose up against the glass.

It is a majestic jewel of verbage, one I lust over obsessively.

But I am not even allowed into its presence.

I can only peer through the pane and imagine what it would be like to possess such magic.

When I return to my home, full of ordinary conversation and simplistic ritual, I will empty my pens of generous ink.

The commonplace words will bleed into the sheets and I will contemplate dreams concocted of cotton.

Someday soon I will empty the mustard jar and count all the  coins, even though I already know the possibilities of purchase are never enough.

It is painful to pretend, but the act gives me meaning.

Scooping up quarters, I will buy a lottery ticket, a feeble attempt to become someone I am not.

But I want you to know, if fate ever visits,  I would buy up that word and use it on you.

Copyright 2009

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