The Receipts are Such a Lovely Blue These Days

Waxier paper improves the crunch when I snatch them from the slot on my way out.

I’ve made a habit of taking the others, left behind by prior shoppers. The flotsam of their week, like necromancy comes to my call and tells me their stories. Dashing out for some paprika, milk, an onion. A dozen date nights, snack runs, last minute recollections, all sung out for me.

When I’ve a place of my own, I think I’ll stick them to my wall, overlapped so all the edges are lost in one another. When I sleep, I’ll look at my pale blue wall of songs, and dream of waves crashing and rolling for no one in particular.