for things she did not really want
from magazines she did not ask to receive.
When she's done with the cutting and
pasting and making of stamp books,
will she be able to breathe or will
to whatever's within her?
She noticed the fine print on a stamp,
the "cash value: one mill", and
she wondered why she tried so hard,
each time the chance arose, to
save the stamps, as if her soul
were printed for retailers
to pass out to anyone who buys,
and she must save as much as she could.
Now her store gives her a card
which provides her with discounts,
and the store with connections,
a cyberspace faux relation,
life lived for marketing statistics.
She does not need trade goods or discounts
or improved customer tracking;
she thinks she doesn't need anything,
other than quiet and comfort.
But as she pauses by the mailbox,
huge stamp book envelope just mailed,
she longs for the feel of a long strip of
stamps, fresh-ripped from a register, being
placed gently into her hand.