Sales

of ukuleles stretching their necks from yards

of canvas duffel yoked across his shoulders,

auroral azul, cherry pop, or mojito green,

under this Pac Heights sky where the awful rich

snap their heels past shop windows, past goatskin bags

and spiked heels that bring them closer to heaven,

fibristic sheets of celadon paper from Zhejiang,

Smiling past them, he passes with his happy load,

a display model whole and nude in his hand,

on sale to no one, uplifted like a Stratocaster

sacramental from mahogany forests in Paraguay.