Monday, December 10, 2018


Through the looking glass, 
I wince at a younger me, 
toy catalogs in primary colors strewn about, 
a red wine stain mocks me 
from the white melamine desk,
as I click away.

Days later in the kitchen 
on the other side of the house, 
I feel the rumble of 
big boxy trucks, 
making their way down, 
the mile-long dirt drive,
breaking branches, 
like knives,
leaving deep wounds in farmland, 
scaring grazing horses half to death, 
delivering the surrogates,
the plastic proxies, 
the stand-ins, the substitutes
for love, time, family, passion.

Decades later,
my awakening is complete,
my grounding firm,
and today
I imagine a warehouse, 
a fulfillment center,
overstocked in Ohio 
with overtired men and women, 
bodies straining under 
the weight of color-coded bins.

And just this week, 
I’m on the inside again,
this time 
watching curious as one of my own, 
now a mom of her own, 
categorizes, sorts, stores, assembles, 
picks up after, 
her own brood of two. 
I eye the catalogs on her counter,
dog-eared pages full of intent, 
believing that her daughters of four and less 
must have, gotta have, absolutely need 
the latest singsong, sing along, alphabet soup, talking map. 
And once again, 
I watch
big boxy trucks,  
make their way up her paved 
suburban drive as the frenzied dog barks 
and chases after 
the Amazon Santa,
paid for with hours away from home, 
at a desk, 
doing things that bring more.
Always more.