In a shopping mall parking lot the carts await
with shoppers, their plastic money, and lists. Their burdened fates
weighted under what they buy. The hope of shopping impulses sated like a mayfly
for now ‘til President’s Day and Super Bowls and the Next Great Sale.
We are the consumer. And short years ago
would have spent this day with loved ones we know
yet christmas has breached Thanksgiving’s Maginot
and sent my Pilgrim’s Pride to its lonesome death ‘neath the asphalt below.
I close my weary eyes and inhale the last cinnamon scented cider and
in warm embrace, assume the final turkey leg and a last purchase
of rest along with that noble holiday. In a catacomb space,
my tomb, under the parking lot by a shopping mall.