One thing I really regret forgetting was a very good deal on beer. I was going to get some Modelo dark, if they had any, but didn't even look for it when I went down the aisle it was on. Shopping is a trial for me even under the best circumstances. When I'm trying to get out of the place as quickly as possible it gets even worse. If I survive this pandemic I expect I'm going to hate shopping more than ever, it's been so stressful.
Speaking of shopping, I noticed today as we passed by it that the local Goodwill store is open again. The thought of all those books is very tempting, books always having been one of the very few exceptions to my shopping aversion, but I don't think I'll go. Their parking lot was quite full, and the place has always been a bit of a zoo anyway. A lot of my fellow poors are probably eager to get back there to buy some cheap used clothes or replace that pan with the broken handle or the cups the kids broke while they were spending more time at home after the schools wee closed down. And Sunday is a tag sale day, so extra crowds. It would be quite stupid of me to got here today.
But all those books, just waiting to be discovered.
The Journey Of A Poem Compared To All The Sad Variety Of Travel
by Delmore Schwartz
A poem moves forward,
Like the passages and percussions of trains in progress
A pattern of recurrence, a hammer of repetitiveness-occurrence
a slow less and less heard
low thunder under all passengers
Steel sounds tripping and tripled and
Grinding, revolving, gripping, turning, and returning
as the flung carpet of the wide countryside spreads out on
each side in billows
And in isolation, rolled out, white house, red barn, squat silo,
Pasture, hill, meadow and woodland pasture
And the striped poles step fast past the train windows
Second after second takes snapshots, clicking,
Into the dangled boxes of glinting windows
Snapshots and selections, rejections, at angles, of shadows
A small town: a shop's sign - GARAGE, and then white gates
Where waiting cars wait with the unrest of trembling
Breathing hard and idling, until the slow~descent
Of the red cones of sunset: a dead march: a slow tread and heavy
Of the slowed horses of Apollo
— Until the slowed horses of Apollo go over the horizon
And all things are parked, slowly or willingly,
into the customary or at random places.