Kayla Czaga
Gone are the days of dawdling
alphabetically through Blockbuster
pretending to be cool in proximity
to our parents, hot and awkward
in our jackets, hiding ratings under
our thumbs. Goodbye bargain bin
depots, you despots of popular
culture, Pez-dispensers of trend.
No more scrawny nerds in blue
smocks scoff at our rom-coms. No
more overdue movies lost under
chesterfield cushions. No more NO
MORE LATE FEES, which were just
late fees with new pseudonyms.
I do not mourn, o Blockbuster,
your bankruptcy, though I loved
zooming downtown with my mom
seconds before 6 p.m. to drop tapes
through your slot, that three-metre
dash to your door. It’s not you
but the feeling of a movie I miss—
that 7-oz. box with rattling innards.
Gone is the VHS. Gone is the whir
and click, rewinding the ribbons
on which our movies were printed.
Gone, like pogs and Pluto, are those
plastic black cassettes with windows
I imagined mini actors trapped
behind, fondly waving goodbye.