Key to the Dollar Store

Just tell me who the hell am I?

What powers did I, do I hold?

What right have I to say “my”

or “mine” or “me” — all honey-

glazed, all bullet-proofed and

worshipful of any gangster “I”?

The key to the Dollar Store

hangs on my belt. Yes, “my”

again. And what of roof, of bread,

of loving laughter? What’s in?

My vinyl favorite Booker Little,

vintage, soothes me. He jars

our ears with trumpet joy and

stuff freed folks stash in cabinets.

Never one to make too much of

why we love and what, I love my

powers. I might put you in my will.