Story People
by anna hood


Last night I met myself
in the hardware department
at the WalMart between rubber
hammers and ceiling fans
fragile as a bubble drifting
translucent in the electric air
all my story people hovering
pulsing in their secret places
waiting to be born.

The key maker young with raggedy
hair grinned, revealed a gold
tooth hidden in the velvet
cave of his mouth. He said,
‘keys, you want keys, I got keys.
I got keys to your house I got
keys to your car.’ Here he winked,
‘I even got keys to lock
up your old man.’

He pointed to a woman,
with a blue parrot
on her shoulder, her black hair
swirling a whirlpool
around three daughters.
‘I ain’t got keys for them,’
he declared, snapping his mouth
shut, hiding his gold
tooth, hiding his blank
keys, ‘those doors are locked.
Jim Morrison is dead.’

The story people fell
back screaming, pounding
their fists, thrashing inside
their plots but the woman
with the hair
with the parrot
with the daughters,
said, ‘ssh, ssh, he’s wrong
these doors aren’t locked.’

And I got out of bed
and started to write.