THE LIVING EXHIBIT UNDER THE MUSEUM'S PORTAL


Arriving with high hopes on a breezy March day
        to sell these forms I've made from clay.
        My pocketbook empty, as I lay my blanket down.
We arrive from all directions:
          Cochiti,
            Zuni,
              The Navajo
                and Pueblos.
Selling our blankets,
        bread
          and beads.
We bargain back and forth with tourists,
        and among ourselves...
        we must love to bargain.
My friend from Zuni tells me business is slow,
        as she keeps her hands busy, rearranging
        necklaces in single file, on black polyester.
        'Damn,' she says, 'to think, I could be sitting
        in a warm office right this minute, drinking
        hot chocolate and typing business letters
        for some honky.'
A tourist and potential customer blurts out:
        'Excuse me, but do any of you Indians speak English?'
        I answer too politely, hating myself for doing so,
        thinking it must be my empty pocketbook
        talking for me.
The Indian tribes represented, line quietly against the stark,
        white museum wall, as each new day introduces
        throngs of tourists, filing past our blankets
        fixed in orderly fashion upon red bricks.
        Visitors looking for momentos to take home,
        that will remind them of the curiously
        silent Indians, wrapped tightly in colorful
        shawls, just like in the postcards.
Huddling together for warmth, we laugh, remembering
        that sexy redhead last summer, who
        bent down to pick up a necklace and
        ripped her tight white pants.
Casually interested, we watch as Delbert, a city Indian,
        hiding behind mirrored sunglasses,
        pulls up at noon, to lay his blanket down.
        He's come to sell brass and silver 
        earcuffs he and his girlfriend made.
        Delbert sets up, while in the truck
        his girlfriend sleeps off last night's party.
My friend is right, business is slow as the late afternoon breeze
        hurries customers away from our blankets,
        toward the Indian art galleries,
        leaving us to feel the sting of cold
        through layers of our woolen protection.
The sun fades into the Southwestern corner of the plaza
        casting large, cold shadows that signal
        the end of our day together.
        Quietly we pack for home, bundling our wares
        carefully in baskets and old grocery crates.
        Back to:
          Cochiti,
            Zuni,
              The Navajo
                and Pueblos.
Tomorrow we will arrive, again with high hopes,
        empty pocketbooks
          and our friendships right in place.