the gift shop

the clerk says hello
when the bell
jingles with the door.
are you local
she says, adjusting
a seashell lamp
from china
above the books
of bad poetry by
mrs. lindbergh.
no, you say, and smell
a bar of soap.
rose petals.
you set it down and
smell the cinnamon
soap shaped
like a tiny
loaf of bread.
you sneeze then
pick up an empty
blue bowl.
you hold it to the light
with two hands.
sea glass,
she says. it's  made
of sea glass. careful.
you set it down.
moving towards
a barrel
of small sea monkeys
made of lava stone.
she has nothing
to say about those,
they are only ten dollars
a piece.
you almost buy
one, but don't. you're
hungry and don't want
to be burdened with a
a bag. you ask her
where might you find
a nice sandwich.
she shrugs and says.
beats me. the bell jingles
again as you leave.