NAMASTE • by Donna Buck

I woke up during the burglary. He was shoveling my jewelry into a pillowcase. I had to think fast.

“Don’t open your eyes,” he warned.

“It’s dark, dude. Even with the light on, I couldn’t tell if you were a man or a lamp without my glasses. Not to worry! But, can you help me out? I wanna buy back my stuff.”

“Okay, okay. Almost done. Gonna do you a favor. This here’s my buddy’s card. I’ll put it on the night stand.”


“His pawn shop. Wait a few days.”

“Cool,” I answered, then added, “Namaste.”

“Yeah, okay.  Go back to sleep.”

Donna Buck writes mostly poetry and short fiction. Her haibun have been published in Contemporary Haibun Online, and other poems are pending publication. She belongs to two writers’ collectives and lives in southern California. She is a retired educator/administrator and wishes that schools afforded students more opportunity for creative expression in the arts. She is a passionate lover of music/arts.

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