|| Poetry by Carissa Starr ||


I watched him pick his nose
in the greeting card aisle
from the office window in this shit store
that is the social barometer
to geriatrics
and soccer moms.
I watch him for at least three minutes
finger in his nose to the knuckle
just diggin' for it
and I feel the over fried
over priced Chinese I had for lunch
trying desperately to come back.
I watch him then I shudder
as he picks up a soft pink flowery birthday card
for his mom.
How endearing.
The cashiers
two teenage girls with too much eye make-up
and a lust for Orlando Bloom
or just about any other guy
in tight jeans and no shirt
stand popping their gum and chattering
like two radios
both making sound but neither really receiving
anything the other one says.
They're not listening.
They're in their world of
social politic
sin a suburban high school
for kids that own a nicer car than me
and buy Coach bags like they're candy.
He doesn't say anything to them.
He just stands there
and reminiscing all at once.
When one finally sees him
he puffs his chest
and plays Alpha.
As he storms out
pretending to be agitated
because it makes him feel like he's bigger
and better than them
he mutters under his breath
'dumb low class bitches.'
I can only smile at the irony
of that statement.


Carissa Starr has a degree in Film Production and works as a freelance writer. Her work can be found in STITCHED Magazine, Pieces Magazine, and Hallboy Comics. Carissa's website is www.threadhoppers.com/carissa She does not consider herself a poet.