At The Mall of America

The aisles are dirty with dollars disguised as moving people.
Excrement of plastic bags, cardboard wrapping, shopping tags,
torn bows, yards of tape, a child’s toy that can’t escape its box,
seventeen plastic straps held in place for a kodak moment.

Thirty racks of folded felt, arranged miles of stretched-out collars
wrapped around Styrofoam necks. Strangers pushed and jostled,
occasionally an “after you”, all the while nibbling on caramel

popcorn. I use my swollen throat to choke down surveys and
sample vials of smell. I tell myself the taste is sweet, the price is
right, the shoe has fit. Grit my teeth and pay for it. Box it in soft

tissue. I’m swallowing sentiment that has leeched into my mind
like broadcast karaoke, a jingle I can’t do without. Monuments
disrupt windows, mannequins portraying life, stiff-armed and

jaundiced, draped in sullen images. Silk embroidered handbags,
wicker baskets, lotions, potions to prevent aging, black and white
elvis, red and white santa, porcelain nativity, athletic socks,

authentic handmade hangings, pink teddies, chocolate covered
candies. Feet stick in stretched syrup seasoned in a green vertigo
of sounds that surround slow symphonies of relaxation played all

day, their chanting interrupted only by the sound of change. My
fingers ache from hanging bags pressed reluctantly against me,
their movements muscled into migraine memory. There is a size

and theme for every invocation. It is up to me to find the perfect fit.
I float around and ponder it. I check my list to interpret whether
this will really get em. Does it have their name written all over it?

I become so tired that I stare, but don’t converse with any but the
pleasant clerk who rings me up, takes my cards, and checks to see
the numbers match to the machine, The re-issue of a hundred classic

tales, once and twice and ten-fold new, rapt and cloaked and shining,
calling out for me to own. In the fountain I drop a coin and plod along
the plaza at the mall. Mouths to please and hands, and feet, and eyes,

will thank me for my diligence. Lost again I follow the insistent march,
blend into, become the people lemming toward the food courts, public
bathrooms, or the clearly marked, imposing, welcome parking ramp.

Tim Moder

Tim Moder is a poet from northern Wisconsin. His poems have appeared in Denver Quarterly, Freshwater Review, Cutthroat, One Art, and others. He is the author of the chapbooks All True Heavens (Alien Buddha) and American Parade Routes (Seven Kitchens). His poems have been nominated for Best Of The Net and The Pushcart Prize. He is a member of The Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. Find him at timmoder.com