30 Poems in 30 Days - Six: Show Me What You Buy, I'll Tell You Who You Are

I'm back to The Guardian for inspiration. This time it's Daljit Nagra's dramatic monologue exercise "where one person is speaking to another person abou someone else. In the process the speaker reveals a flaw in their own character".

I decided on the dramatic monologue form early this morning, but could not think of a speaker, or the subject. I spent a good part of the morning photographing the spectacular effects of last night's snowstorm, (and not thinking about what I'd write for poem six). The trees were bowed to breaking under the weight. I measured four inches. I also took photos of the dogs playing in the snow.

Out of desperation, I finally turned to the news, the dailybeast.com, for inspiration and found my subject matter in an aritcle about how credit card companies create psychological profiles based on purchase history, which can predict if a cardholder is high risk, likely to get a divorce soon, has recently moved, if the cardholder spends more on others than themselves, with alarming accuracy. Apparently, if you like Count Dracula from Sesame Street, you're for legalizing marijuana. AH! AH! AH!

Diana Krall's song Temptation, and Nancey Chapman's Byzantine pendants and Michael Kors chainmail hobo bag featured in Vivre: The Art of Living magazine served as inspiration, as well.

Show Me What You Buy, I'll Tell You Who You Are
Danna

Oh, what is there to say
about our dear girl, that hasn't been said?
I lunched with Candace yesterday.
Poor girl is as world
weary as ever.
Yes, darling,
she's home, from yet another excursion.
Darling, I told you she was abroad.
I said we lunched.
Yesterday.
I told you, darling.
Israel!
Geoffrey, you must have your ears
checked, and soon!

No, I don't know
if she swam in the Dead Sea.
I sincerely doubt it. You
know what delicate skin she has,
so prone to dryness.
I haven't the slightest idea
if she prayed at Kotel.
Really! Why would she pray
at the wall?
You know she's hasn't
been to synagogue for ages.

Over shrimp in champagne sauce,
she brought out her latest acquisition.
To great effect, I am loathe to admit.
Yes, yes, that is quite an
admission, my darling man.

Mmmm?
Oh, Byzantine bronze crosses,
circa 337 A.D.
She is on a mad quest
to find a jeweler
to have the things made
into pendants.
She asked me to enlist
you to find a jeweler. As if finding
a jeweler in this city was
an onerous task!

I expect we'll receive Byzantine
crosses next holiday.
Of course we'll wear them,
when we're out with her.

Remember those horrid
chainmmail handbags
she had specially
made after her stay
in Navarre?
I nearly broke
my wrist lugging
that thing
around.

And, mon Dieu, after her tour
of Colonial silversmith
foundries, she presented
us with those ghastly
tree branch menorahs!
I was certain
if I opened
a window, a flock
of birds
would fly in
and promptly set
about building nests.

Why Byzantine? She identifies
with Empress Theodora.
Can you imagine?
Darling! I most certainly did
not tell her Theodora
was a whore
(and Christian),
before she was an empress.
Such a comment
would be gauche, simply
beyond the pale,
(no historical pun intended).

Indeed, the look
on her face
would have been worth
it, but darling,
I'm not like you. I
don't have the luxury
of blurting every
thought that comes
into my mind.