The Antique Store Downstairs is a Netherworld Paradise

Hey man. All I'm saying is there's a reason why the mannequin in front has one arm, and I swear it follows me with it's one eye.

Just so you know, Grub Street is located at 160 Boylston Street on the fourth floor, four stairs, four concrete slabs of construction protecting us feeble writers from the gangsters "antique" shop downstairs.

So here's my poem/letter to the old woman (in my mind, she's two-hundred and thirty-seven years old, six-foot seven with a big ol' rack, built like a Gorilla with chest hair thick like the perfect shag) who owns the store and the magic portal underneath it that transports her to whatever fifth-dimension she hails from:

Dear Gorilla-Woman,

I've seen the front of your store, explosively slipshod,
I've seen the dust powdered in dough-nut thick rings around your wares,
I've seen the hockey jersey slump next to the brass vase and poster
of an 80's hair-band,
but what I haven't seen makes me cross myself
before I cross that threshold.
shoulder
shoulder
forehead
chest.
and the way the teapot watches me
makes me tingle
way down
in my gibblets.

Oh yes, I'm on to you.
The dolls are your watchmen, the old clock with rat bites hides your portal,
(much like that movie "The Last Unicorn")
Oh yes, I've walked your floors and stooped at the sound of a quiet
'oof!'
What creatures do you hide underneath your living concrete grounds?
Where is your spaceship?
The laughter coming from inside sounds almost
human,
a rolling guffaw and toot,
but I don't believe you.

I thumb my nose,
a leg and a finger, at you.
You're not pulling no
fast one on me.

Not for a second.

But please,
keep the peace. What strange bargain you have with us
is fine enough
to me.
So I'll continue to ignore those slick eyes,
the strange lump-shaped
footprints
settling in the dust,
and I won't tread too hard on your floors.
But I worry about your obviousness,
obviously my genius
(coming from my powers as the unknown
Power Ranger Salmon)
betrayed your identity to me.

But I'll keep your secret if you keep mine.

Best wishes and luck,
xoxoxo,

Lillian.


JUST IN CASE:

Okay, this was really just a joke. I'm new to the blog thing and wanted to have a little fun, so that's all this is. There really isn't a giant man-eating octopus living in the basement of 160 Boylston, I swear. And to the people who actually own the charming shop downstairs: I'm sure your wares are very nice - and expensive. Please don't take offense, it was just a joke and I'm sure you're not towering chimps with big gazongas. But face it, don't lie, I saw the scotch-tape wrapped around the lid of that bronze jar.


In wary, weary dread,
with dreadful eyes,
dreading the people downstairs read this,

Lillian Ling