a mixer of well-off wanderers and commoners off on Wednesday,
biting into Black Friday blues.
But not grandmothers wielding
baseball bats for canes to beat teenage girls like eggs
to the delights and cotton confections in store--Oh my God, you know?
Frayed knot. A person is their shoes, their pace,
the smell of new shoes on old feet: wild grown nails,
telling themselves they're adorable in everything, including
a grave, including another line, tapping toes until another
coffee cup, standing same as husbands in urinals.
This is what happens when one counts shoes, eight hundred pair,
journeying to stores like handless ships to fabric store shores.
Same clack, some shuffle, same struggle with high mileage strollers
towards chocolates or candied pee-cans, the bookstore, though
is closed, making the mall as ridiculous as socks in flip-flops.
Off-brand tapered jeans, truncated ankles, lead to expensive
stores with fast refund methods.
In minutes your money is back
in someone else's bank, but only after you're thanked in a
foreign dialect, elegant.
I hope they're regional rednecks from a place
that holds hands, prays, and thanks that nothing changes.