A Holy Connection To Jesus And Savings

Thrift stores, consignment shops, donation bins, walk-in-closets,

they all invite me in with a “WOO LAWD!”

type of welcome

and an itchy pseudo-crotchless sorta smile,

that feels good at first,

then a little weird,

but then...

“Holy crap, is this shirt only 50 cents?”

“Nice.”

I feel an almost spiritual connection to thrift stores.

As if I'm the lone wooden toggle on their corduroy pants.

As if I'm the only thing separating them from utter pants-less-ness.

When I walk into a thrift store I feel like I should have been born

there every single time, like I'm a virgin baby plucked out of a hamper of dusty grandpa coats.

I was born to shop with frugality, I was made to comb these aisles,

I was fabricated to tap into these sales, just look at these platform shoes!

God damn! So fresh!

I mean they'll fit,

they just need some tissue paper in the front,

and the back, but that's okay,

my foot will be encased in softness-

like an angel's whisper between my toes,

and that's a good thing!

What's not, however, are the fickle hands

of time on a glass door

who say,

“Better luck next time,”

or

“Sorry we're closed,

but I accept these like

lover's quirks and have grown

to admire them even,

as the fastidious treasure hunter does

who always has his eyes on the prize.

“Your only open from 9:00 – 9:25?”

I ask Sister McGinty,

“Jesus himself couldn't make this unholy schedule!”

“I beg the lord, the almighty in heaven, somebody bless me with a workable timeframe!”

“Grant me extra time so that I may buy these sequin pants you have!”

“So that I may buy them and walk in the garden of their splendor!”

“Can I get an amen, SISTAH MCGINTY!”

“Well,” she replies

while handing me the pants,

“Jesus wasn't no punk.”